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 smoke-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.