Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 3)."]

After the incident with the neighbor I felt very uncomfortable in and around the apartment building; I did not want to run into the guy who was clearly “interested” in me in a very intimate way.  Israel told me he’d talk to the neighbor.

A few days later when I came home from work Israel told me he had talked to the neighbor.  He told me he had smoked a joint with the neighbor.  Uh, my boyfriend thought it was ok to smoke a joint this guy who said he wanted to “get with me”?  Let me remind my dear readers that I was 19.  I had certain ideas about how a boyfriend should be.  And I still have the idea that a guy who claims to be my boyfriend should have understood that if I’m upset at someone the best thing to do is not to smoke a joint with that someone, but rather to defend my honor.

Well, over that joint Israel got to the bottom of why the neighbor held out his wallet to me and said he’d pay to get with me.  Apparently, my evasiveness regarding where I worked at night, by saying I worked “down the street,” had sounded to the neighbor like, “I work on the street.”  He thought I was a streetwalker.  And my boyfriend thought that it was funny.

That was probably the turning point in our relationship.

He traveled to visit an ex-girlfriend and despite repeated assurances that he would not have sex with her, he did.  I cheated on him with a regular Q’s customer.  When we were alone we drank a lot.  I still couldn’t buy alcohol, but Israel could.  He bought me Irish cream – of various brands – which I drank over ice.

But we didn’t spend much time alone together since we were both working a lot and I went to school as well.  On Superbowl Sunday both Israel and I worked waiting shifts.  As I’ve mentioned, I was not a good waitress.  It stressed me out to no end.  On Superbowl Sunday Q’s was packed with people watching the game, drinking, and eating.

For the Superbowl there were food specials.  Only exactly what the food specials were was not communicated to us, the waitstaff.  The management and the kitchen staff had different ideas of the specials.  Those of us who were trying to earn tips didn’t know what the fuck to tell the customers.  After being told one thing by my boss and another by the cook, I was pissed.  My boss caught me just outside the kitchen.

I was mad, he was my boss.  There were words, of the loud and disrespectful nature.  He fired me.  On Superbowl Sunday.  I was actually relieved.  I was doing a shitty job waiting and probably wouldn’t have been tipped all that well anyway.  I handed my open tickets over to another waiter and walked home.

For the next few days I went to school and worried about my next job.  Unbeknown to me, Israel was working on his boss – my former boss.  He asked him to hire me back – because he was tired of having me around our apartment all the time.  Nice.  I went back to work, but no longer took any waiting shifts.

Israel announced one day that he had been to the local sex shop.  Back then the local sex shop was nothing like my local sex shop, Good Vibrations.  Back then the sex shops were dirty and sleazy and of the sort many people would only enter on a lark on drunk.  He showed me his purchases, some skin magazines of the extremely large-breasted variety, and a strap-on harness with a dildo.

I wasn’t even sure what the harness contraption was.  He told me he wanted me to put it on and to fuck his ass.  I was a naive flower at the time.  I’m pretty sure I wasn’t so naive as to think that him wanting something in his ass made him gay, however, I’m definitely didn’t fully comprehend dominance and submission/top and bottom dynamics.  I had already participated in some BDSM activities up to that point (though not with Israel), but I didn’t get much other than I liked being teased a lot.

Well, I tried.  I put the harness on.  I had a cock.  For about two minutes.  I tried, I really did.  I felt fucking ridiculous.  And silly.  I laughed more than anything and I didn’t even get close to fucking him.  Which may have been for the best as I don’t recall him having brought home lube from the porn store.

The strap-on purchase was a last-ditch effort to make our relationship work.  Another gesture that I considered downright ridiculous and silly was him asking me to marry him.  I was all of twenty.  He wasn’t much older.  No matter what, no matter how young and naive I was, I knew that a relationship of six months in which we’d both cheated on each other was most definitely not a solid foundation for a marriage.

He seemed to think differently because he married the girlfriend after me.  I never met her, but he and I continued to be friendly so I learned that she was older than him.  I figured that by age alone she was more ready to be married.  Many years later I know that there is a shit ton more to being married than “maturity.”

I swear.  True story.

[This from guest writer Dick Cramden (he he).]

It was the perfect place for our rendezvous. The club was dark and smoky. The band played urban blues, down and dirty, slow and sultry. Sitting at a booth in the back, I watched and waited.

I knew it was you the moment you walked in. I had to catch my breath in anticipation of the night about to unfold. I loved watching your body as you slinked closer to me, your outfit hugging the curves of your body. Hips swaying which each step. Arms slowly telegraphing the graceful move of each next step. You paused, looked around briefly, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I rose, and gestured to you.

I had thought we would start the night breaking the ice over a bottle of wine. I had already selected the one adequate Cabernet in the place. But when I saw you standing there, in that smok-filled room, as lusty couples slowly moved to and fro with the raunchy blues, the wine was forgotten. This night we would drink vodka.

Sitting together for the first time, we made nervous and polite small talk, disguising the raging arousal we were both feeling. The small talk grew more intimate. By the second round of vodka tonic and vodka cranberry, a confession: we were both really horny. By the third, courage enough to move together on the dance floor.

We never had to experience the awkward first steps of two people dancing together for the first time. The rhythm of the night consumed us. We began too far apart, but not for long as our attraction pulled us close … very close. Your perfume added the final sensory thrill to our introduction. Our eyes met and locked. Our legs met and gently rub together. My hands soon held on to your swaying hips. Your breasts lightly grazed my chest. I remember how your smile turned into a sultry purse of your lips, and my arousal swelled. You pressed yourself against it, and I could tell the game was now afoot.

The tempo of the next song picked up. The band ground out the four/four beat with a loud sensuality accompanied by a raunchy horn section. You pushed back from me, and flashed me a wicked grin. The buzz of the vodka was filling both our minds. You spun around and backed your fine, fine ass against me, and pressed it against my hardness, wriggling it there, teasing me. Before I could embrace you, you spun around again, stepping back, and rubbing your hands on your thighs below the hem of your black skirt. It was then I noticed for the first time the garter belt holding up the sleek black stockings that dressed your shapely legs.

Watching you was maddening. You had such grace in your tormenting of me. As the dance continued, I noticed your nipples begin to stiffen beneath your blouse. Sweat began to form on my brow; my temperature was rising.

Again you stepped back from me, rubbing your hand along your thighs, raising the hemline higher and higher. Your bare thighs, so silky smooth, there for me to see for the first time, and now all I wanted was to see more and more of your marvelous skin. You danced closer to me, finally, but only to cup the swell of my crotch, before taking two steps back to continue your play.

Again you pressed your ass against me, and I leaned forward and managed to give your shoulder a quick and gentle bite and kiss, before you pulled away, shaking a scolding finger at me to the tempo of the song. The sultry smile returned to your face. You dropped a hand back to your thigh, as the other caressed your neck, and ran fingers through your hair. This time your skirt lifted up so high, but only so that I (at least that’s what I thought) could see, as you dipped a finger into your panties, to let it dance momentarily at the top of your sex. This move stunned me, but before I could scarcely express my delight, you placed your finger in my mouth and let me taste your sweetness for the first time. I grabbed you and pulled your body tight against me, and we kissed for the first time. Our tongues continued the wild dance as our bodies slowly rocked to the rhythm of the waning song. It was time to leave.

[Look out for the next part of Dick Cramden's story.]

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 1)."

Staying with my mother turned out to be a disaster.  When I worked at the bar on the weekends I was often too amped to go right to bed.  When I lived alone this was not a problem; I'd invite coworkers over to hang out.  When I stayed with my mother, one night I invited one coworker, a close friend, Laura, over and my mother threw a fit.  Apparently, we made too much noise heating up food and talking.  My mother and I got into a huge shouting match right there in front of Laura.  I think she began to understand why I lived on my own when my mother lived so close and had an extra room.  That night I called my mother a cunt.  I called her a cunt because I knew she hated the word.  My mother and I knew how to push each others' buttons.

That fight made me realize that I could not stay with my mother for much longer.  My trip to Prague was not for a few more weeks; I hadn't finished paying for my plane ticket yet.  But I had to get the fuck out of my mother's place.  Laura had been talking to me about how crazy it was for me to go to Prague with Israel, a guy I'd only met (and fucked) once.  I know now that Laura wasn't and would never be an adventurous person; to this day she's never lived more than 20 miles from her parents and "long distance" travel – from LA to Hawaii – is a harrowing experience for her.  But I didn't know that then; at the time what she said made sense.

I got an apartment in Pasadena.  It was a cute studio apartment with hardwood floors, a separate kitchen complete with a milk door into the building's hallway, and a Murphy bed (in which I did not sleep).  Though it was a studio apartment it was much larger than the tiny place I'd been living in for years.  I felt like I was moving up.

Israel and I kept in touch.  He made it to Prague.  He said it was fucking cold.  He said it was damn cheap.  He told me he was getting a lot of writing done.  We sent each other post cards.  The ones I received had photos of beautiful buildings and bridges; the ones I sent were written with dirty things I wanted to do with him if we ever again saw each other.

I quit working at the book store.  I was really tired of the idiots who shopped in the mall.  I began working as many hours as I could in the bar.  Before I had a chance to worry about paying my new, higher rent, Israel returned to Pasadena.

He had tired of the cold, and had had his share of beer, and freaked the fuck out when he saw a dead body on the street.  He had also run out of money.  I'm not sure if we bothered to discuss it, but he moved in with me.  He picked up shifts waiting tables at Q's.  After all, he was the favored son there.  So favored that he got me some shifts waiting tables.

The day shifts were not particularly hot commodities.  I had to ask the cook what the specials were, and write them on the board we posted in front of the place.  While Q's was open for lunch, it really was a bar and a pool hall and did much better business at night; it just happened to be open during the day.  Any bartenders the boss was trying out would be given a few day shifts to see if they could cut it, and if they could put up with making no fucking money.

It was working one of the day shifts that I saw John Ritter.  He played pool but I don't think he bothered to try to choke down the mediocre bar food.

So Israel and I lived together.  He was the first guy with whom I attempted to live.  Since we hadn't discussed that we would be living together, we had no idea what our expectations of each other were.  At such a tender age I certainly didn't know what to expect.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

[Continued from "Slave Auditions, Part 3."]

It was a long, exhausting day of slave tryouts.  It was also a lot of fun.  So much fun that after Cutey left there was more fucking.

We conducted all of our slave “business” through my email.  During the week I received several emails from potential slaves to whom we’d sent the “You Lose” emails, as well as emails from those who did actually show up who wanted to come back for more.  Most of them did.

Glasses told us he had driven all the way from Petaluma.  Nineteen told us he was fine with us filming him.  Cutey said – in German – that she wanted to be our pet.  All around very flattering, and hot.

In addition, I received several emails from potential slaves whom had not been scheduled for our initial auditions.  I decided to add another set of auditions the following Saturday.  Once again I told them what time to be at my place.  I had five scheduled until one asked, “After I clean, can the three of us fuck?”  Uh, no, and our original ad made it clear that the potential slaves would not be able to fuck us.  So we had four half-hour auditions scheduled.

Once again the Viking made a delicious brunch of scrambled eggs and crêpes.  It was delicious.  As there were only four potential slaves scheduled, and the previous week proved the flake factor was quite high, I figured no one would show up.  But we had a nice brunch, it’s always nice to see Sugar, and Saturdays are good, lazy days.

We ate.  We waited.  The first potential slave flaked.  Not much of a surprise.  Then the phone rang, signaling someone at the front door.  Yay!  Sugar and I were ready.

I opened my front door and saw a very young guy coming down the hall.  Very young.  So young that I asked for his identification.  He had recently turned 21.  So adorable.  He was a little guy – probably 5′5″ and cute as a button.

Right away I put him to work cleaning my downstairs bathroom’s tub.  I used that shower/tub regularly when I had the former roommates and I still hadn’t cleaned it proper since I started using the upstairs bathroom for personal hygiene.  I brought him cleaning supplies.  Sugar told him to take off his pants.  Then, every few minutes, Sugar went in the bathroom and spanked him with my riding crop.  She’s so cute when she gets toppy.

We dubbed him 21.  When he was done in the bathroom we had him do some dishes.  He kept leaving the water running longer than he should have, and he seemed to think that his hands were an effective cleaning tool even though there were dish scrubbies.  And though I pointed out the compost bucket to him multiple times he didn’t seem to grasp the concept of compost.  Even though he lived in Berkeley.

But we were having fun, he was cute, and no other potential slaves were showing up to relieve him.  He stayed and I continued to give him tasks to do around the kitchen.

We ran out of wine.  I wanted vodka.  I was about to leave for the store when Sugar suggested we have the Viking go to leave us alone with 21.  The Viking left.  In his absence we asked 21 to show us his cock.  He did.  I certainly hope he was a grower.

The Viking returned with vodka and several mangoes.  He then juiced the mangoes in his fancy, super-powerful juicer, mixed the juice with the vodka, and served it over ice.  Yum!  Mango juice and vodka is one of my favorite drinks, ever.

We asked 21 how many girls – because he thinks of women as girls at his tender age – he’d had relations with.  Two.  TWO!  So fucking cute!  Sugar pointed out that if he fucked us that he could double his number immediately.  Sugar is a dirty girl who wants to corrupt young, sweet 21-year-old boys.  Which just makes me want to fuck her more.

I suppose 21 forgot that the ad that brought him to my place indicated that one of the potential rewards for doing a good job was to hear Sugar and I fuck each other because at one point he asked, “Do you two sex each other?”  What?  We each determined the other was a woman on our first meeting; continuing to sex each other is not necessary.  We most definitely have sex with each other, and we informed him of such.  Silly boy.

We eventually allowed 21 to have some of the yummy vodka concoction, and we finally sent him on his way.  I saw him to the door and told him we’d let him know if we wanted him back.  He did a pretty shitty job of cleaning.

No other potential slaves showed up – we were one for four for that day.

Sugar and I then watched Jon Stewart being interviewed on the O’Reilly Factor.  We were both turned on by how fucking smart John Stewart is and how lame Bill O’Reilley is.  We barely got through the interview; we had to stop it a couple of times to make out.  Kissing Sugar is so much fun.

Then we went up to the bedroom.  The bedroom I share with the Viking.  The Viking, however, had work to do so he stayed downstairs.  Downstairs in a loft apartment where the bedroom has no door or fourth wall.  When she and I began fucking he assured us he did not mind.  She and I have good sex.  Good, loud, hot, dirty sex.

Then, after Sugar left, the Viking fucked me.  I’m certainly lucky.

Out of six total potential slaves, we’re definitely having two of them back, 19 and Cutey.  We may invite Glasses back since he was the best cleaner.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Slave Auditions, Part 1."]

The next potential slave showed up with a bouquet of mixed flowers, also obviously from a grocery store, and a bottle of wine. I like wine. Good boy.

Potential slave number two we dubbed Too Tan because, well, he was. He went to work washing dishes and pointed out some of Baseball Bat’s sloppiness. I thanked him, though maybe I should have given him some shit for being a tattle tale.

He asked for some of the wine he brought. I denied him. After all, even when the person bringing the wine is not a potential house slave the gift is a hostess gift and should not be expected by the guest. That he asked as he was trying out to be a slave made it an even ruder request.

I had him take out the trash, recycling, and compost.  He took a little longer than he should have, but during his absence Sugar suggested we have some wine for him as a reward.  She really is a much nicer mistress than am I.  Also, I don’t think she had gotten into the spirit of our exercise.

But then after Too Tan left Sugar said she wasn’t into him as a slave.  She had no interest in seeing his dick, and didn’t really care enough to bother to try to humiliate him, since ostensibly that is exactly what he wanted.

The Viking pointed out that we were two for three, and that at that rate he’d surely win the bet.  I agreed that if the potential slaves continued to show up that rate he would definitely win the bet, but I wasn’t calling it before the end of the day.

Which was good, because the next five potential slaves flaked.  During the time when they were supposed to be here my friend Mr. Zip arrived.  We had told a few people to stop by so they could help us humiliate the potential slaves.  We figured the less intimate it was, and the more shit we talked about the peons who were cleaning, the better.

As I didn’t know what time Mr. Zip would arrive, when the phone rang I used the same stern tone I had with the service supplicants and told him not to take the elevator.  He made it clear that he would not be told what to do.  Oh, sorry!

Mr. Zip and Sugar met for the first time.  He and I have had a few threesomes together, and I could tell right away that the possibility of another one occurred to him as soon as he met Sugar.  Sugar is a hottie, and she and I have some very fun and sexy chemistry – who wouldn’t want to join in?

Mr. Zip focused on Sugar and even went so far as to ask if she liked chocolate.  While that doesn’t seem all that crazy, I knew exactly what it meant.  Mr. Zip goes to the Winter Fancy Food Show every year.  This year I went with him.  Hundreds of food manufacturers – including many chocolatiers – give out samples.  Mr. Zip doles out his chocolate samples to the various ladies in his life, and is especially generous to those he’s not yet bedded.

I pointed out my own stash of chocolates from the Fancy Food Show and told Mr. Zip that Sugar could have as much as she wanted from me, that his little samples weren’t likely to impress her.  I have no problem if Sugar and Mr. Zip fuck – whether with me or not – but I felt I had to call him on his silly shit.

None of the potential slaves showed up when Mr. Zip was present.  To each of those who flaked, I sent an email with lovely face photos of Sugar and I attached to show that we’re both reasonably decent looking (she much more than I) and wrote that they missed out.  I did not hear back from any of them.

We thought maybe no one else would show up when the phone again rang.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued, of course.  Stay tuned for the results of the bet between the Viking and myself.  Find out if we saw any more cock, girthy or otherwise.]

I recently had a very good first date. Very good.

We found each other through OkCupid.  I had seen his photos and thought he was cute.  One might think that I only go out with guys from OkCupid who I think are cute, but that is not the case.  If the guy seems interesting I’ll go out with him.  Looks are not all that important, and guys can grow on me if they’re cool, and good in bed.

We met at Cassanova, a divey Mission bar complete with velvet paintings of nude curvy women with big hair.  I was a little early but my date was already there.  We recognized each other immediately so there was none of that awkwardness of introducing ourselves.  I found us a seat on one of the several couches in the bar and he got us drinks.

The conversation was good.  As is my wont we talked about sex.  He had gone to Kinky Salon the night before, I had fucked a hot chick.  We talked about handcuffs; we talked about gun play.  He put both in the same category; I did not, as gun play is way more dangerous, and requires way more trust than simply being handcuffed.  But we agreed that they are both absolute turn-ons.

After a couple of drinks we crossed the street and had sushi.  Our waitress was curt with us, and didn’t much appreciate that my date wanted to order a sashimi combination, as it wasn’t on the menu.  We had sashimi, California roll, and spider roll along with some very tasty sake.

We then walked to his place.  He assured me he had more alcohol there.  And he did.  He had a bar, complete with crystal booze decanters.  He also just happened to have handcuffs, red ones.

He put the handcuffs on me, which I liked very much.  I liked ‘em so much when he offered to take them off so I could make myself a drink I declined.  My hands were cuffed in front of me so I made myself a drink with the handcuffs on.

We fucked.  I sucked.  He fucked my ass.  He had a lovely uncircumcised cock and the smoothest cock head I’ve ever had the pleasure to put in my mouth.  I don’t remember the exact order of the fucking, or if we fucked while I was cuffed, but I do remember him fucking me while I was tied up.

Tied up?  Yes, tied up.  At one point he appeared with rope and manhandled me into a hogtie.  It was so fucking hot.  I especially liked the feeling of the rope being pulled through as he was tying me up.  He got me into a hogtie and left me there.  Very nice.

He didn’t fuck me while I was hogtied.  He fucked me after he did a bit of rope adjusting so my feet were free and my hands were bound in front of me.  I was very much fascinated by the rope around my wrists.  It was so pretty I stared it most of the time.

He offered to pay for a cab but I felt like walking home.  It was raining but I had an umbrella.  It was a pleasant walk in the rain.  I probably should not have made the walk though, as it was well after 2am and I was quite drunk.

I was also still horny.  So when I got home I made my new roommate fist me.  Frustratingly, he refused to fuck me.

The next day I received the following message on OkCupid:

Hi There,

Thanks for coming out last night, and I’m glad you got home ok!

[Shazam's Date]

I really don’t know what the fuck to make of the message.  Did he have as good a time as I did?  Does he want to see me again?  I really hate this part.  I can only fuck things up at this point – by being too eager.

Whether he or someone else does it, I most certainly want to be tied up again.

I swear.  True story.

When I first heard of people liking dry fucks it was in relation to HIV transmission in sub-Saharan Africa.  Apparently the culture is such that wet pussies are considered bad and dry ones provide more friction, which makes the guy feel like he’s got a big, manly cock.  Dry fucking is more likely to tear a condom, if one is used, and also more likely to tear vaginal and anal tissue, thereby making sexually transmissible infections more likely to be, well, transmitted.

Some sub-Saharan African women go so far as to artificially dry out their pussies so as to please their partners, and, to a degree I’m sure, themselves.

I like the feeling of a cock forcing its way into me when I’m not quite wet enough.

So in the morning when the Russian woke me up and told me he wanted to fuck me again I opened my legs.  I like my morning sex quiet, but when he shoved his nice thick cock in my sleepy pussy I couldn’t help but cry out.  Oh, but it felt so good.  Then he told me to turn over.  I happily got on my elbows and knees and let him plow away at me.  By this time I was definitely wet but it still hurt a bit.

It probably hurt due to the pounding he had given me the night before.  We met for drinks.  He’s a drinker.  I like me a drinking man.  I told him right away that I was sick, and then coughed repeatedly to prove my point.  He assured me that the cure for a bad cough was a shot of vodka.  He also told me that a shot of vodka is the cure for a lot of things, according to Russian lore.

After some drinks he suggested we fuck.  Yes, of course.  But first to the liquor store for more vodka.  By that time I had stopped coughing though .  Vodka is a cure-all.  Maybe I’m part Russian but just don’t know it.

We went to his place.  He lived in a neighborhood I had never been to before, though he swore it was within the confines of San Francisco.  It was … very much a bachelor pad.  He had warned me that it was a bachelor pad, but no amount of warning could have prepared me for the bathroom.  The state of the bathroom was disturbing.  It was a good thing I was horny and I already knew the Russian was a great fuck or that bathroom would have had me begging him to take me home.

Once in his bedroom we took our clothes off and commenced the fucking.  And the sucking, too.  Uncircumcised cocks are so much fun to suck.  They just are.  There are more places for my tongue to explore on an uncut cock.

I made a request of the Russian:  That he speak Russian.  I told him it didn’t matter what he said, just say it in Russian.  I have a thing for languages I don’t understand spoken to me during sexy times.  German, French, Thai, Spanish, and now Russian.  He assured me everything he said was absolutely filthy, which turned me on even more.

We fucked and then we slept, and in the morning he gave me a nice dry fuck.

I swear.  True story.

Uh, no. I’d hardly had a chance to miss him. Rather, I hardly had formed an image of him in my head based on our limited encounters so that I could miss him.

We met through Craig’s List.  I was hanging out with a friend in my neighbor’s place, where she was puppy sitting.  The friend invited over a few of her friends, and we all hung out with some booze and music.

One of her friends was a bisexual man whom she said she’d fucked before.  Soon after he arrived he sussed that I was a fun gal.  Or maybe I told him how cool I think I am.  Either way, he decided that he should place an ad on Craig’s List for a hot bisexual guy who’d come over to hang out with us.

The guy who arrived was cute.  However, he did not appear to be bisexual.  He was clearly way more into ladies than gentlemen.

Eventually we made our way to my place (back when I still lived alone).  I must’ve made snacks for everyone, as I’m a good hostess.  Everyone there was flirty.

Somehow our new arrival, “Larry Asshole” ["Larry" is a pseudonym, "Asshole," while not his actual last name, is nonetheless the descriptor I have for him in my phone.] and I only did any fooling around when no one else was in my place.  Everyone else went out on my patio to smoke, or to the neighbor’s place for more alcohol, during which time Larry Asshole and I kissed or went in the downstairs bathroom, where I sucked his cock.

Once the whole party was together Larry Asshole pretty much ignored me.  This is not how Larry Asshole got his pseudo-surname.  I liked that he ignored me.  It turned me on, and he knew it.  It turned me on to see him flirting with and cuddling up to another woman at the small gathering.  The other woman I thought was cute, but I didn’t particularly want to fuck her.

Eventually everyone left.  Larry Asshole stayed.  By this time I’d been plenty teased and wanted to suck his cock more, but not in the confines of the bathroom.  I sucked his cock on the couch.

It was during that time that I began to think he was kind of cheesy.  He actually said, “You really don’t have a boyfriend?”  He implied that my cocksucking skills were such that I should have a boyfriend.  I made it clear that I didn’t have a boyfriend and I didn’t want one.

We went to my bedroom and fucked.  He took liberties when he reached up whilst we were fucking and circled my throat with his hands.  It was welcome, for sure, but he didn’t know that.  He didn’t know that I wouldn’t freak out.  He didn’t know that a safe word would have been appropriate.  Or if he did know he didn’t ask me.

Nonetheless, I found it hot.  The next time he called I had him over again to fuck me.  And the next time.  Then my living situation changed and he called with very little notice so I had to turn him down the next couple of times he called looking for a fuck.  The periods between calls became longer and he certainly never offered to take me out – he never even brought me anything like a bottle of wine.  This is how he got the surname “Asshole.”  No wonder I was loath to have him over again; the sex was decent enough, but it wasn’t so good that I didn’t at least want some wine and a bit of conversation.

He came over today.  He woke me up when he called and I realized that 1) I had the place to myself and 2) I’d not been fucked since the new year.  He arrived within fifteen minutes.  And he left less than twenty minutes after that.

The sex was decent.  I like sucking his cock, I do.  And it felt good to have him fuck me from behind – my favorite position – but everything had a rushed quality to it.

I want to have nice slow sex where I can take my time sucking cock and where I can get fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked and fucked some more.

Today, as soon as we got to the bedroom he asked me if I missed him.  My thought was, “No, I didn’t fucking miss you; I don’t even like you,” but instead of saying that I put his cock in my mouth.  Whereupon he proceeded to ask me a series of questions about whether I liked to suck his cock, if I liked him playing with my pussy, and, yes, whether I missed him.

Finally I told him that he was acting like a dentist, asking me questions I couldn’t answer with my mouth full.  I asked him if he wanted me to answer his questions or suck his dick.  He chose the latter.

He came on my face.  Sort of.  There was very little come, and I’m convinced that he had already masturbated in the morning.

As he walked out he said he’d see me later.  “No, you probably won’t,” I said.

I swear.  True story.

I 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.

[Continued from "Alameda Guy (Part 3)."]

A couple of times I went to Alameda Guy’s side of the Bay via BART.  The first time he and his friend picked me up a the Lake Merrit Station so we could begin our evening.  Alameda Guy’s friend was HOT:  Tall and very good-looking, very much out of my league.  Actually, I don’t even play the same game as guys that good-looking.  Normally I’m very nervous around men who look that good, but meeting him with Alameda Guy meant there was absolutely no reason to even attempt to flirt.

The three of us attempted to go to dinner.  The East Bay is pretty sleepy and downtown Oakland just doesn’t have much going on, even on weekends.  The restaurant we wanted to go to wouldn’t let us sit, as it was just 9pm, their closing time.  We settled on a pub that had a live band that made it too loud for reasonable conversation.  We ate and moved on.

We stopped at a liquor store where Alameda Guy bought a case of beer.  I reminded him that I don’t drink beer; he told me the liquor store only had rather cheap brands of vodka and that there would be something better where we were going.  We drove to a mostly industrial area of Oakland and parked.  Then they grabbed the beer and we walked around the corner.

There were a lot of motorcycles.  A lot.  And quite a few people milling about the front of a nondescript storefront.  At the door Alameda Guy paid a cover charge, though I wasn’t altogether sure why.  Inside it was dark and cramped.  To the left there was a band and to the right there was a bar.  Past the bar the narrow room narrowed farther to accommodate two bathrooms on the right.  Beyond the bathrooms there was no door; it appeared that the wall was simply missing.

The missing wall allowed access to the outside, which was a fenced-in area only somewhat larger than the cramped inside space.  Jammed into the “yard” was a fully-ablaze fire pit, beyond which was a boxing ring.  The boxing ring was why we were there.

We were at the East Bay Rats Motorcycle Club’s clubhouse for Fight Night, a Fight Club-style amateur boxing event.  We, however, were mere observers.  We never got too close to the ring, and certainly didn’t participate in the fighting.

These are East Bay Rats hotties at the clubhouse. Yum!

I’m not a big fan of boxing, but maybe that’s because I’ve never seen professional boxing live.  Because that night it was thrilling to see people hit each

other.  Someone would step into the ring where the announcer/referee put out the call for a challenger.  Once there were two willing fighters in the ring the participants would agree on wearing gloves or going bare-knuckle, number of rounds, etc.

Then they’d fight.  The fighters weren’t nearly as graceful as professional boxers I’ve seen on television, but they tried.  They tired easily, they stumbled, they didn’t make contact all that often, but they were in the boxing ring doing their best.  There was one fighter who Alameda Guy said he’d seen several times at the fight nights, and who Alameda Guy had never seen win.  I rooted for him that night, but he once again lost.  I respected that he kept trying.

After there were no more willing fighters the action inside heated up.  There was an amateur strip competition on the bar.  In the bar and on the bar, which had two poles between its surface and the ceiling.

By this time I’d had several vodka and sodas.  I became a fully-participatory audience member.  No, I did not enter the competition.  There were several lovely ladies who did, however.  They even showed us their boobies.  My favorite had some tattoos, thigh-high stockings, nice small breasts, and a big round booty.  She also happened to move the best.  I’m not the only one who thought so because she won the prize of $100 (I think) based on audience applause, including my loud whoops.

After the ladies were dressed the party petered out.  The three of us walked back to the car and Alameda Guy and I were dropped off at his bachelor pad in a converted Victorian on a sweet little street in Alameda.  I assume we fucked and that the fucking was good because fucking with Alameda Guy was always good.

Several months later I would have an encounter with a hot guy who arrived via motorcycle to my house.  He was wearing a leather jacket that had the East Bay Rats logo on the back.  I told him about the fight night I’d been to and because the Bay Area is so small he was there, too.

I swear.  True story.

[I think this is the end of this story.  He disappeared and claimed to always be busy when I contacted him.  Then we finally met for drinks.  I was under the impression is was difficult for him to get away from his kids and work, and that things were tough considering the pending divorce.  Over drinks he told me he was seeing a new woman.  I was happy for him and told him I hoped she was geographically more desirable than me so it was easier for them to get together.  No, she lived in Marin County which is significantly farther away from Alameda than is San Francisco.  He had to cross not one, but two bridges to get to her.  All things being equal, I was more conveniently located.  Obviously all things were not equal.  I told him that he didn't need to bother with the niceties of drinks if he had no interest in me and I left.]