This week the book MWF Seeking BFF comes out.  I don’t notice when most books come out so this book, about a woman who moves to Chicago because of her partner’s job (sound familiar?) and then spends a year looking for a best friend, must’ve struck a chord.  I’m still not sure if I’m going to bother to read it.

I’ve been in Chicago a year and I don’t have a BFF here.  I have a good friend whom I see about once a month when she comes into the big city from the ‘burbs.  I’ve met a lot of people that I thought maybe could be my friend but so far nothing’s worked out.

I know that friendly relationships are like romantic ones in that you just have to keep cycling through them until eventually you find someone with whom you click, but it’s time consuming, nerve wracking, and heartbreaking.  At least with romantic (read, sexual) relationships I can resort to sex if we don’t have much to say to each other.

I tried strictly platonic Craig’s List listings with no success.  Of course I could go back and beat the dead horse some more but I just don’t have the energy to wade through oceans of stupidity.

Through Meetup.com I signed up for a group that seemed like it could be fun.  The host said our activities were to truly bond, not just to meet acquaintances.  To that end, she planned drunken brunches, Brazilian waxes, sex shops, and tattoo and piercing events for our meetups.  Fun!  I used to have groups of girlfriends with whom I’d go to spas and such, and I love me a drunken brunch, so I was in.  Bonus was that the Meetup organizer was also new to Chicago so we could commiserate with each other over winter woes (she was from Texas).

The first time I met ladies from the group was a brunch of the drunken variety.  We all started out sober, but that didn’t last long in a place where the mimosas were bottomless.  The food was decent, too, especially considering it, too, was bottomless.  Over buffet food and lots of mimosas we talked, but the true sharing didn’t happen until we started playing “Never Have I Ever.”  Turned out one of the ladies at the table had never given a blow job and another lady had never kissed a girl.  The one who hadn’t had cock in her mouth had been kissing only girls until very recently and had yet to get a taste for cock, and the one who had never kissed a girl hadn’t had the drunken coed experience despite having very recently completed Ohio State.

After our adult bonding the whole group went to a sex shop where quite a few of us bought some toys.  No one was freaked out by the store, and after our game of “Never Have I Ever” it would have been odd if anyone was.  They didn’t seem phased at all when I bought a strap-on harness.  I ran for the bus saying a fond goodbye to my new friends.

Well, “friends.”  I didn’t have anyone’s phone number; any contact was through the Meetup.com page.  I was excited that I had had a fun day with a group of ladies.  I wasn’t concerned that everyone else who had attended the brunch seemed to already know each other; there has to be a first time meeting for everyone, right?  The group had proved itself to be open minded, and alcohol-, queer-, and swear-friendly so I was in.

The next time we got together was at a tattoo and piercing studio.  I had been planning a tattoo for a long time but had never gotten around to it in San Francisco so I knew exactly what I wanted.  I showed up slightly early and set about getting the tattoo.  I was going to get it whether the other ladies showed up, but a little social support would have been nice.  When I didn’t see them I figured most everyone had canceled and the host canceled the Meetup altogether since the last time I checked out the site.  But I was going to get a tattoo no matter what.

After the artist drew what he thought I wanted and I approved it, he set about getting his station ready.  Just as he called me back, the Meetup host showed up.  She said that she and the other ladies had met earlier at a bar in order to build up courage.  I don’t know if the host thought I was some sort of teetotaler – and she shouldn’t have considering our initial meeting over many mimosas – but I told her that drinking before a tattoo or piercing is not a good idea since alcohol can thin the blood, which can be troublesome, especially for a tattoo.

As I began getting tattooed, the host went to retrieve the other ladies from the bar.  Everyone else showed up just as my tattoo was getting bandaged so none of them saw it fresh.  A couple of the ladies got tattoos and a couple other got piercings.

Afterwards we went to a pretty dead sports bar across the street.  We chatted, and some of the conversation turned bawdy, but before too long someone wanted to get “supplies” for her new piercing and rather than stay by myself at a bar that was blasting whatever game was on, I opted to go home.

By this time the host and I had exchanged numbers.  We texted each other some asking after our new body adornments, but that was it.

I RSVPd that I would go to several more of the group’s meeting, and I wanted to go, but then finances were such that it was silly for me to go out to dinner when there was food in the house, that it was silly for me to get a Brazilian wax when there was a beard trimmer in the house, that it was silly for me to go out drinking when there was booze in the house, so I RSVPd that I couldn’t go. The next time I was actually able to see them I would explain the situation.

I got a text when the ladies were out to Greek food (a thing here in Chicago) that they wished I had made it.  How sweet!  I was looking forward to the next drunken brunch at another place with bottomless mimosas.  If nothing else, the Meetup group would allow me to survey bottomless mimosa brunches in Chicago.

When the brunch was still a couple of weeks off I got an official, do-no-respond-to-this-message message from Meetup.com letting me know the Meetup group was no more.  Wha?  The group’s site on Meetup.com said that the group was no longer active, but still noted the upcoming events.  I was very curious so I texted the host.  She didn’t respond.  Well, I was sure I’d get a full explanation at the brunch.

And then the brunch was canceled.  I never heard directly from the Meetup’s host so I have no idea why the group was dissolved.  The insecure child in me thinks the group was dissolved just so the rest of the ladies could get together without the possibility of me showing up, but that’s silly, right?  When we got together we had fun, I thought.  Sure, I wasn’t into going out dancing at clubs, but I wouldn’t have been into doing that with anyone, no matter what their skin color.

Did I mention that I was the only white girl in the group?  And I only bring this up because I brought it up to a couple of people who’ve lived in Chicago longer than I, and they suggested that that might be the reason the group was dissolved.  They said Chicago is a very segregated city.  Maybe I just live in a white privilege bubble, but I don’t see why if that is so that it has to go on being so.  The things I felt I didn’t have in common with any of the ladies from the group – cock sucking experience, lady kissing experience – had absolutely nothing to do with race as far as I could tell.  Or I’m just naive.

I’ve met a few ladies through OkCupid, but I guess that forum makes it necessary that there’s some sort of sexual spark if the “friendship” is to develop.  And I would love to again have a friend with whom I like hanging and also fucking, but just the hanging part would absolutely be enough for me right now.  One lady said I was too intense.  One lady seemed as enthused to meet me as I was to meet her but then things fizzled out, I think because I’m not kinky enough, whatever that means.  One lady I’m still not sure about.

I don’t have the fortitude to do a lady date a week for a year in order to find a friend like the woman who wrote MWF Seeking BFF, but I suppose I should keep trying.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (3)."]

Despite being a seasoned cook and knowing that the oven’s heat was significantly compromised every time the oven door opened, I didn’t have much of a choice.  The cornbread for the dressing had to be dried out; the acorn squash had to be roasted.

Soon our other guests arrived.  They brought a tomatillo gaszapacho and a pumpkin cheesecake along with some wine.  Folks, the proper thing to do when going over to someone’s house for a meal, be it Thanksgiving dinner or lunch, is to bring something for the host.  You can look that shit up on etiquette websites if you don’t believe me.

I put all the guests to work.  They offered and considering I felt kind of pressed for time I accepted.  One guest cut up the sage for the dressing – after I showed him how.  One guest washed and peeled the veggies for the salad.  She had offered to help but then seemed to want to get out of it but I didn’t let her; I needed hands working if we were to have a full meal.  The Viking did most of the vegetable deconstruction for both the dressing and the salad.

The guests, despite having a selection of snacks available to them, were getting restless – and hungry – so as soon as the salad was ready everyone began picking at it.  I was worried no one would like the salad, which consisted of very thinly sliced raw root vegetables (thanks to the Viking and his mandoline) over arugula with a hazelnut dressing, but they were all about it.  So much about it, in fact, that I replenished the platter o’ salad and all of it was gobbled up.  They also gobbled up most of the acorn squash.  I was surprised everyone was so into the vegetables, but I supposed they didn’t have a choice since the turkey was still in the oven.  We had gaszpacho to eat, too, so we had some of that and declared it quite tasty.

We were having fun socializing but I was getting worried.  I had put a temperature probe in the turkey so I was watching that, not the time, to determine doneness.  The thickest part of that thigh was not cooking nearly as fast as I had hoped.  Sure, the oven was opened a bit in the beginning, but since I took out the squash I left the door shut.  Still, it was cooking slow as shit.  What I didn’t realize until a couple of days later when I was still lamenting my poor timing of the meal, was that all the turkeys I had cooked before this year were done in a convection oven.  That hot blowing air really does make a difference so if you’re a roaster and considering investing in an oven, I suggest a convection-capable model.  The turkey ended up taking about two hours longer than I had expected.

The guests were very nice, and by that point it’s not like they could have found a decent Thanksgiving meal elsewhere, and claimed they weren’t bothered by having to wait so fucking long for the turkey.  The Viking said it was kind of fun to hear my frequent declarations of the turkey’s interior temperature.

When the turkey was finally up to temperature I pulled it out of the oven and put the turkey on its rack under foil to rest.  The roasting pan went over two burners and one of the guests endeavored to make the gravy.  I think he was really hungry and wanted to get on with it already.  After a tasting the gravy was declared very salty.  Shit.  Then someone pointed to the blender.  The blender – which had been taking up space on the counter since the guests arrived – was about a third full of a red sauce.  Duh!  The red sauce was a bunch of reconstituted dried chilies blended up to be added to the gravy, to make it an ancho chili gravy.  Once that was stirred into the contents of roasting pan, the gravy was not too salty and it was downright tasty.

Finally, we could eat! The six of us ate less than a breast’s worth of meat on the 14.5 lb turkey, but I had designs for leftovers anyway.  Some were going to go home with the guests.  We had saved some very sturdy take-out containers from previous meals that would be perfect vessels for reheating.  One of the guest helped me fill the containers.  Well, “fill.”  By that time I’d had quite a bit of wine and didn’t fully realize that my helper was having me put about a snack’s worth of food in each of the containers; I had meant to be much more generous.

There was dessert, the brought pumpkin cheesecake and ancho-chili crème brûlée that the Viking had made.  Overall it was a pretty satisfying meal, if a bit disjointed due to my timing issues.  Maybe you’re interested in seeing what the food looked like, or perhaps the recipes.  Go ahead and take a look at the Viking’s food blog for all the details.

And the final (very minor) disaster of the day occurred when we were running the dishwasher.  In my experience dishwashers are self-contained, keeping the water spraying within behind a locked door.  Not that day.  That day the dishwasher spit out a bunch of hot, dirty water all over the floor.  While I removed my socks, junker towels (the ones that aren’t suitable for company) were retrieved, and we spent the rest of the evening trying to ignore the huge mess in the kitchen.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "Baby's First Chicago Thanksgiving (1)."]

So it was fortuitous that I saw a Groupon for a home theater system.  It was affordable, had surround sound, and I didn’t have to do any research?  I wanted it.  The Viking was in San Francisco at the time so I texted him the info and asked him what he thought about just getting it.  His response was that it was a good brand and that we needed something.  Exactly.  I ordered it.

It arrived the afternoon of the night the Viking got home from San Francisco.  The night was taken up with getting reacquainted; we hadn’t spent so long apart from each other since he moved in with me, almost two years ago.

The next day, while I was fussing with dinner related household doings, the Viking installed the new system.  I helped a little – I didn’t just boss him around – but he did the hard work.  Thankfully, he didn’t have to re speaker wire the whole living room; the new speaker wire (with proprietary attachments to the amplifier) was simply attached to the old speaker wire with electrical tape (the Viking insisted on it), the new speakers placed, and everything plugged in.

The new subwoofer was significantly smaller than the old one and could fit on the shelf where the old amplifier had lived.  The new amplifier was thinner, but wider, than the old one, so its home would be next to the AppleTV on a shelf that was tall enough to fit about four DVD boxes stacked on their sides.  Even the speakers were smaller.

The sound, however, was much larger and clearer.  The Viking put on one of the Harry Potters and it sounded all around us like there was magic going on (I guess).  Music sounded good too.  The Netflix was about as good as it was via Wii, but now we had the option to access it two different ways.

With the home theater system – what I still think of as a stereo because I’m old – in place and working well, there was cooking to do.  I made the achiote paste.  “Paste,” that is.  I followed a recipe from the internet and I didn’t test it out first, which was a mistake, of course.  The problem with sites like Epicurious is that they don’t tend to address “ethnic” foods, leaving the recipes for those to lesser-tested and -regarded food blogs and such.  The “paste,” just three tablespoons of which I was to add to butter, was more of a liquid with sediment.  When it was all stirred up it was tasty, and the next day it worked into butter in a reasonable manner (with the help of an electric hand mixer).

The Viking made crème brûlée, with a twist, it was chocholate-ancho.  Less than a week before the Viking moved in with me he had a dinner party at his place and served crème brûlée for dessert so I knew he’d be up for the task.  Also, he hadn’t used his fun little kitchen torch for a long time.

I felt like I was pretty much on top of things.  Well, I thought it’d be a good idea to get the dressing assembled, but that was no big deal, I thought.  I had already made the cornbread itself, which was most of the work, right?  Uh, no.  I realized the next day that the dressing required a whole lot of chopping as well as some soaking.  When using dried chilies, most of the time they need to be reconstituted in hot water for about a half an hour.  I should have prepped the dressing and left it in the baking dish in the fridge overnight.  There was plenty of room since I was brining the turkey on the back porch.

That’s right, if you had broken into my yard and gone to my porch you could have stolen a 14.5 pound organic turkey in a chili-rich brine.  I’m glad you didn’t steal it because that would have ruined my day, and probably some other folk’s day as well.  I suppose if it went to feed some people who would otherwise be turkey-free then it might have made their day and it all would have come out in the wash.

The turkey was brining in a turkey bag inside an ice chest on the back porch and we were brining ourselves.  Well, I was.  I had a few drinks that night whilst watching a DVD – in the living room, something we hadn’t done since we moved in to our Chicago place.

I didn’t rise exceptionally early on Thursday ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Sometimes I feel like I’m still a kid myself and my peers who have children are “adults.”  I know this isn’t necessarily true; I’m as much as an adult as anyone my age and they as immature as anyone who’s realized that growing up isn’t all that fun.

The most fun is playing like a kid but without having to stop on someone else’s schedule.  And with alcohol.  And sex.  A whole lot of sex.

Yes, I’m selfish.  Yes, I’m immature.  I also don’t have to think much about the future.

I don’t have to worry about sending anyone to college, or feeling badly that I can’t afford to do so.  I don’t have to worry about smothering my kids, thereby retarding their emotional growth, making them fuck-ups as adults; the animals need me to dote on them their whole lives.  I’m glad I haven’t contributed to the overpopulation of the world.  I’m glad I don’t have to think about the kind of world my kids or my grandkids, or so on, will live in because they won’t exist.  When I die that will be it.

I don’t have an urge to see what my kid would look like.  I don’t have an urge for the immortality that passing on one’s genetic material provides.  I do want to live the life I’m living now whilst having a lot of fun.

Lest y’all think that since I’m not worried about my progeny or how it will fare on this planet, that I’m a douche, let me assure you that I do what I can environmentally.  I don’t have a car and haven’t for years; when driving is necessary ZipCar works just fine.  I separate recycling from trash, and when I could – in San Francisco where the city collected it – I composted like a motherfucker.  I pick up after my dog religiously (though I don’t worship her shit or anything – that’s gross).  I use all natural kitty litter.  You know those bags that dog food and kitty litter and such come in?  The kind that can’t be recycled?  Yeah, those I turn into trash bags themselves; they’re going in the trash anyway, they might as well be full of trash when they go.  So I’m doing my part for all the kids of people who were too stupid or too arrogant to use birth control correctly.

And with that, I’ll get myself another drink.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "I’m Not Complaining (4).”

I’m not complaining when I say that by the time a man is in his 30s he knows how his dick measures up, so it was extremely silly when he asked me, “Is it big enough?”  He knew very well that he had a pretty big cock, and I told him as much.  Sure, I understand it’s nice to hear, but it’s not my job to boost a guy’s self esteem.  I didn’t ask him if any of my parts were up to par; it was obvious we were going to have sex so at that point it didn’t matter.

I’m not complaining that his bush wasn’t trimmed.  Everyone has the right to decide how to groom himself.  I just don’t like having to stop mid-blowjob to pull hairs out of my mouth.

I’m not complaining that he didn’t fuck me hard.  Nor am I complaining that when I asked him to fuck me harder that he said he couldn’t or he’d come.

I’m not complaining that when I told him to go ahead and come, just fuck me hard, he didn’t.  I’m not complaining that he didn’t fuck me hard enough and didn’t come anyway.  Well, he came, but not until later, and in my mouth.

I’m not complaining that after “Top Chef: Just Desserts” ended, a Kathy Griffin stand-up show came on.  Actually, I am complaining.  There is not much less sexy to listen to than Kathy Griffin.  I must have one pretty goddamn talented mouth to make a guy come while her annoying voice talks shit about idiots.

I’m not complaining that he didn’t give me cab fare home.  He had been paying all night.  But it’s still nice to be sent on one’s way knowing your date cares enough to make sure you can make it home safely.

I may see him again if he’s in town.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I last went bra shopping two years ago.  At the time I bought three bras.  One didn’t fit so I exchanged it for another that didn’t fit, but in a different way, too large in the cups – it would be a great bra for smuggling contraband.  I still have it but I prefer not to wear it.

I prefer not to wear a bra at all, but if I want to leave the house I need to.  I know that the girls shouldn’t go out off-leash.

One bra I bought was “sexy,” meaning it wasn’t meant to wear under anything even slightly clingy since it was lacy and would show as lumpy.  Also not too comfortable.

The last one was very practical.  It has turned out to be the ugliest bra I have ever owned.  Its shape doesn’t allow me to wear it under anything clingy; it’s not lined and it makes my tits look pointy.  Also, it has some weird panels on the outside of each cup.  Said weird panels have bunched up after washings (on delicate cycle, air drying) so that it looks like I have lumpy side boob.

I had been needing to go bra shopping for a while, since those three plus one much older bra were the only bras I owned.  The Viking knew I needed to buy more bras because I complained often about being uncomfortable, not having a bra for a certain outfit, or having lumps and bumps show through my shirt.

I kept putting it off for various reasons.  Any reason would do because bra shopping is so fucking unpleasant.  The Viking didn’t understand, but I’m sure you ladies can.

When I retweeted a message to the effect of bra shopping being a circle of hell the Viking reminded me, again, that I needed to go bra shopping.  I had retweeted a tweet of someone I had actually met in person.  We had met in person over  manicure-related issue – she helped me when I needed to get my no-chip manicure off my nails.

While she helped me with my nails we seemed to get along well enough.  The Viking remembered that and tweeted her that we should go bra shopping together.  I texted her that the Viking wanted us go bra shopping together.

Realizing almost immediately that both he and I sending her such messages seemed pervy, I assured her that the Viking, while very interested in large breasts, would most definitely not go along on said bra shopping trip.

The Viking had suggested we have a couple of drinks before shopping, which was a brilliant idea.  We coordinated to meet for a boozy lunch near the big Chicago Macy’s.  It’s the Macy’s that used to be Marshall Field, which I know from my time at Macy’s in San Francisco.

We met for lunch and commiserated over the fact that it was difficult to find well-fitting bras in our sizes, which were of the relatively-small-rib-larger-cup variety.  It wasn’t until I talked to a friend who was of the relatively-large-rib-smaller-cup variety that I realized it’s only the women who are in the 34C range that don’t have a horrible time shopping for bras.

After lunch we went to the huge, fancy Macy’s.  We took the ancient elevator up to the floor that held not only the lingerie but also the maternity and juniors sections.  We walked around amongst the many bras.  Many, many bras.  We lamented that the department was divided by brand rather than size.

Nonetheless, we were able to find some bras in our sizes.  She was able to find many more bras of her size.  Bras are funky.  A size of one brand will fit while the same size of another brand will be too big, or too small; it’s very frustrating.

She had many to try on.  I had a few to try on.  After walking around the bra section, pulling bras off the racks, and trying some on in the dressing room we still had not been approached by a single salesperson.  Not one.  We had seen a couple, but they didn’t seem to give a shit that we were there, clearly ready to spend money.

We should have left, but we had already psyched ourselves up to buy some fucking bras.  I settled on three; she on one.  She was definitely more discriminating than I considering she had tried on many more.  The three I decided upon actually held up my boobs without anything spilling out – not the highest of standards.

The service was so shitty that we couldn’t even purchase our bras in the lingerie department; there was only one person at the checkout and she was clearly going to take a long time with the one customer she had apparently decided to help.

The nice thing about having to go to the juniors department to purchase our bras – my three for well over $200 – was that we didn’t have to hear the lingerie department’s shitty jazz.  Instead, we got to hear shitty pop.

We didn’t have to hear the shitty pop for long; we made our way to the street where I caught the Brown Line and where she hopped on a bus.

I’ve worn the three bras I purchased, and understandably each of them is uncomfortable in a different way.  They just confirm that I prefer not to wear a bra at all.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "I'm Not Complaining (3)."]

I’m not complaining that they didn’t offer to buy my lunch.  Instead, when the check came he said they’d split it three ways.  Only it didn’t seem to be split three ways because she didn’t pay at all.  It was just split so I paid for myself.  In my experience with couples, I, the woman they want to bring into their relationship, is the date and therefore treated.  But since they didn’t want to bring me into their relationship I guess they figured they didn’t have to pay.

The couple rushed out, supposedly because they had things to do before school started again and in preparation for a lake-based mini-vacation with her family; there was some angst over having to spend time on a houseboat without complete freedom to fuck.

On the way out I suggested we become friends on FetLife and shortly after our date I texted my FetLife name and said I was interested in going to munches.  Each of them has since friended me on FetLife so of course I took at their profiles.

Especially after it was clear they weren’t interested in fucking me, I have no doubt that I sound childish when I say that after looking at their profiles I decided I wasn’t interested in them anyway.  But it’s true.  I swear.

He considered threesomes a kink, which is just silly.  She was obsessed with her boobs, which were big but not all that special.  But what sealed the deal for me is that their threesome activities seemed to include putting the ladies in a dog crate – which I’m sure they considered a cage – so he could stick his dick through the slats for the ladies to suck.  Uh, no thank you.

Using a dog crate as a cage did give me an idea: Sell Isis’s old crate to kinksters rather than dog owners.  I imagine the fact that it was used by a real dog and probably has some doggy odors would be a plus for the puppy play folks.

So after meeting the couple that didn’t want to fuck me that day I wasn’t necessarily excited to meet someone else, but I did.  And we were having a nice time.  We got along well and were having a nice conversation.

After a couple of drinks at the second bar, we went to a third.  Yes, we were again carded.  Then it was time to go to his hotel, where there was another bar.  That night I couldn’t for the life of me get drunk.  Hell, I barely felt buzzed.  The hotel bar was on a high floor with a great view of the Chicago skyline.

It was a weekday so the bar was dominated by men, probably in town for work; there were only two other women besides me and they had dates, too.  If I ever again get in the mood for random fucks, hotel bars could be a lot of fun.  Hotel sex guaranteed.

Finally, we went to his room where I raided the minibar so I could have another (somewhat useless) drink.  He turned on the tv and flipped around until it landed on something we could both agree upon, “Top Chef: Just Desserts.”  It was the season premier.

We watched for a bit and then began kissing.  His mouth tasted of cigarettes.  It was not pleasant, but he was a good kisser.  I’m not complaining.

I’m not complaining either when I say that “Top Chef: Just Desserts” is not the sexiest of soundtracks.  I was able to block it out for the most part.  His pants came off, and then his boxers.

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Really, I’m not complaining.  I had a nice time, I truly did.

We met at a restaurant/bar very near where the Viking and I lived for a couple of weeks when we first moved to Chicago back in December 2010.  I knew right away I wasn’t dressed appropriately because it was a rather fancy place and I was wearing cropped cargo pants and flip-flops.

He showed up late but he had said he would so I wasn’t upset at all.  I had my Words with Friends games to play, Instagram to look at (My accounts for both are over there on the right.), and I was listening to “Distorted View” (Link to that is also over there to the right.) on my iPod.

I probably should have put my name in for a table because I could tell it was quite busy, but honestly I wasn’t sure if my attire would allow us to stay, and I wasn’t sure if he was interested in getting dinner.  By the time he showed up I was quite hungry so when he asked if I wanted to eat I had to say yes.

We inquired as to the wait to eat: a full hour but the bar area was first-come-first-served.  We declined the dining room’s wait list and opted to try for the bar area.  We looked around at a full bar, the accompanying full bar-level tables, and the standing hopefuls.  We decided not to bother and left.

In that part of Chicago there are many, many places to go for dinner and drinks.  We walked just a block when I recognized a place I’d been to before that I recalled as being decent.  The place had old album covers of the Peter Frampton type as its menu covers.

We shared food of the American bar sort – sliders, crab cakes, truffle fries, and fried shrimp with mayonnaise-y sauce.  Everything was ok.  The crab cakes weren’t crispy but neither were they bread crumb-laden.

What was not great was the service.  The waitress apologized with an excuse that she had to both cover the section in which we were sitting as well as an outdoor section, which was very far from us.

We had a nice conversation between flagging down first our waitress and then finally resorting to getting the attention and ordering from another waitress.  After we ate we moved on.  We wandered around in the area a bit looking for places that wouldn’t be too loud or sports-obnoxious that would let me in my flip-flops in.

Finally my bladder decided for us and we dipped into a club.  If it weren’t a weekday night I would not have been allowed in.  While my ID was checked and I found the bathroom, my date smoked a cigarette outside.

Seems my date was a smokes-when-he-drinks kind of guy.  At one time I thought that was sexy.  I liked the taste of dirty cigarette breath; it made me feel dirty.  I think I’m over it at my ripe old age.  I’m not complaining.

I’m not complaining that I get carded so, so much in Chicago.  I’ve yet to go into a bar where I wasn’t carded and I get carded at Binny’s regularly – when I’m not with the Viking.  Still, it’s ridiculous that I get carded at 38.  I wish I looked under 30, which I think is the standard for Illinois’ “We Card Hard” campaign.

I’m not complaining that I had met a kinky couple earlier in the day.  It wasn’t my first dirty couple meeting since I’ve been to Chicago, and I’m sure it won’t be my last.  Whenever I get a chance I know I’ll have the opportunity to prove just how fun I am with couples, but so far it hasn’t happened.

I’m not complaining that the couple I had met didn’t want to fuck me.  Frankly, I’d had my misgivings and was very hesitant to meet them.  I didn’t flake on them because we were meeting at a place just a few blocks from our apartment.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "It Seemed Promising (Part 3)."]

He was not only manhandling me, someone who had consented to it, but he was being mean to his dogs.  He argued that taking them out every 12 hours was sufficient.  I’ve seen a dog after an 8-hour day of being inside really, really need to go to the bathroom; 12 hours was ridiculous unless they were dehydrated.  I told him that unless he took his dogs out I was leaving.

He was incredulous.  I wasn’t kidding.  Even if a guy is slapping me around I have to know he’s a nice guy.  I think he thought I’d change my mind.  I did not.  I’m stubborn.

Then, as if it was his idea, he told me to get the fuck out.  He told me he’d give me $50 for a cab.  Stupidly, I refused his money and asked that he just point me in a direction where I’d be able to catch a cab easily.  I was used to San Francisco, where it can be very difficult to catch a cab in most parts of town; Chicago has plenty of cabs.

I might have been crying at that point.  The plight of his dogs – especially the old one – had gotten to me.  There’s a reason I don’t have fun outings to animal shelters, or any outings at all to animal shelters.

I was able to get a cab right in front of his building.  No, he didn’t bother making sure.  I told the cab driver my address and began to sob.  The cab driver kept wanting to know if I was ok.  In that horrible, high-pitched crying voice that all women have, I tried to assure him that I was find.

I texted the Viking that I was on my way home and not in the best shape.  By the time the cab pulled up in front of our building the Viking was outside with Isis waiting for me.

The cab driver told me I didn’t have to pay.  I said I wanted to pay but that I only had $4.  I gave him the $4 but had forgotten about my emergency $20.  My emergency $20 is in secret spot and with me at all times.  The Viking made me begin carrying it when I started meeting people in Chicago if I got into situations just like the one I was in – having to take a cab to get home and away from an asshole.

Ladies, if you want to get out of paying your cab driver, might I suggest crying like a little girl.  That was not a serious suggestion.  Actually, I wish I had gotten the cabbie’s name so I could pay him properly and tip him accordingly.

The Viking took me inside and listened to my version of the story through my sobs.  He’s comforted me a few times when I’ve been a crying mess, and he’s always been perfect with a hand gently rubbing my back and a soothing voice.

I felt especially bad that my date had gone so poorly because his date went well.  At the time that was all I could hear, that his date went well.  I was happy for him, but at the moment I was really busy feeling sorry for myself.

The next day I felt like an idiot.  But also glad that I had left when I did because who knows what could have happened with a guy who had so much trouble turning off his “dom.”

I checked my OkCupid messages and had not one, but two from him.  The first:

Look. I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. You might have a different opinion how I treat them, but I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. I take care if take care of my pets. Fuck you and anyone else if they think I dhttp://www.okcupid.com/messages?readmsg=true&threadid=12555606849807570162&folder=1#sendon’t take care of my own. I do my own.

That URL in the middle there was to our OkCupid message exchange; I have no idea why it’s there other than that he was definitely drunk when he sent it, about 20 minutes after I left his place.  Clearly I had hit a nerve.  If anyone accused me of abusing my pets, I would laugh because I know I don’t, whereas this guy got defensive, kicked what was sure to be a great lay out of his house, and then sent this message.  Sadly, I fear his dogs got the worst end of the deal since in his mind he probably felt like they cock-blocked him.

The second message, sent a full hour later, “Congrats on you being a lawyer. It means very little to me.”  I don’t know why he thought of that after stewing in his juices for an hour.  By that time I wasn’t thinking about him, I was sleeping.

The only reason I thought about him at all was so I could write this.  And now I’m done.  Good riddance.

The woman I was supposed to meet ended up having to babysit her over-drunk friend.  We both had kind of shitty nights.  We’re supposed to meet eventually.

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

[Continued from "It Seemed Promising (Part 2)."]

As it was getting decidedly close to the time we were to meet, I decided to message the guy via the OkCupid app.  Though I had given him my number, he hadn’t used it so I had no other way to contact him.

By that time I suspected he was the guy sitting at the end of the bar, but I wasn’t positive so I didn’t want to approach him.  After all, he wasn’t the only solo guy in the bar and he could have been any of them.  Yes, I had seen a picture, but it had been some time and online photos don’t always match up to real life flesh.

I should have trusted my instinct.  I’ve met so many guys via Craig’s List and OkCupid at this point that I get a “looking for someone” vibe off of them.  Eventually he must’ve read his OkCupid message because he came and sat next to me.

He was cute.  He had straight teeth.  Over the course of several drinks we had a very nice conversation.  He said I came across as “toppy.”  I said that I’m only toppy with idiots; that I appreciate a strong hand.

Our conversation included discussion of the bar, which was crazy.  The sheer amount of random shit behind the bar was the crazy part; everything else was just a typical dive bar.  Everything was covered with a layer of dust.  But the best thing about the bar was the woman, presumably Rose, the owner of the titular bar, who had a well-padded seat behind the bar.  Rose and I had a bit of a chit-chat and she hobbled out of her chair to get us more drinks.

The guy and I scooted our bar stools closer to each other.  Hand on knee.  Kiss.  Drink.  Hand up skirt.  Girlish pushing of hand away.  Hand on knee.  Kiss.  Drink.  Hand up skirt.  Girlish pushing of hand away.

I had on what can only be called embarrassing panties.  Not panties at all, but underwear.  Utilitarian underwear.  I demurred again and finally told him that my underwear weren’t sexy.  “What are you wearing, Spanx?”

Well, at least he had heard of what amounts to the modern girdle.  All the stars wear them, and they keep things from moving about in an unattractive and uncomfortable manner.  I admitted that I was, in fact, wearing Spanx.

He told me to go to the bathroom and take them off.  By this time it had been established that I wasn’t feeling toppy at all.  I did as I was told.

My skirt was long but it was still obvious his hands were up it; it was time to go.  We took a cab to his place.  In the cab we did some groping and making out; we were both raring to go.

By the time we got into his apartment he was manhandling me.  This was not unwelcome.  Not at all.  I asked him to slap my face – several times.  He was pulling my hair and pushing me about.  I was having a fun time.

He had two dogs.  They were cute, and one of them was old.  I have a soft spot for old dogs, having had a 15-year-old dog in ill health, and now having and 11-year-old dog (still doing well).  I, understandably, wanted to pet the dogs.  I offered to take them out with him; he had been gone for several hours and chances were they had to go to the bathroom.

Apparently it wasn’t as easy for him to go from his dominant mode where he was pulling a woman’s hair and slapping her face, to a cooperative and nurturing mode where he was taking his dogs out to the bathroom with his date, who he would soon enough be treating roughly, because he refused to take out his dogs.  He refused to do little more than acknowledge them and seemed upset that I was paying any attention at all to them.

I suppose this makes me one of those “only in the bedroom” D/s types because I prefer to relate to people (who deserve it) as my equals elsewhere and to get “mistreated” when it’s time for the rough fucking.

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.

©2012 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.