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

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Continued.]

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued ….

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Actually, I already have a gun.  A gun made out of Lego bricks.  I love Lego and I’m fascinated with guns so this seemed like a natural thing for me to get.  I ordered my Desert Eagle from Brick Gun a few years ago.  I’d tried to put it together but fucked up by mixing up two parts, and had given up for a while.  I didn’t have time; I wasn’t in the mood to play.

The Viking encourages me to play.  After we spent some time in Chicago, where there’s a Lego store, my love of Lego was well-cemented.  I custom-made my own Lego people and then made them fuck.  The Viking bought me some Lego kits as well.  I reminded him that I have a gun ready to be assembled.

So a night in the not-too-distant past the Viking began putting the gun together.  I had had some wine.  When we ran out of wine I dipped into the liquor cabinet.  Due to my alcohol habit, the liquor cabinet tends to contain only liquors used for cooking.  I’m not so far gone into said alcohol habit that I need to drink booze meant for cooking.  I am, however, so far into said alcohol habit that when the Viking was assembling a gun out of Lego bricks I decided to drink the Mason jarred corn whiskey.

Despite appearances, the corn whiskey is not actually moonshine.  It was purchased in a liquor store, or maybe a BevMo, many years ago.  The Ex bought it back before he was the Ex.  We broke up in 2007, and he moved out, taking the jar o’ booze with him.  Then, two years later, when he and his stupid (as in unintelligent and lame) girlfriend moved in, he brought it with him.  When, after the stupid girlfriend attacked me and they moved out, the Ex forgot his booze in his haste to get him and his crap (that includes the stupid girlfriend) out of the place.

The Ex was a bourbon drinker.  He may still be, but I neither know nor care.  Back when we were together he was a bourbon drinker.  His everyday drink was Maker’s Mark, but he would drink fancier – and more expensive – bourbons on special occasions.  As bourbon is whiskey, he also tried out various whiskeys in his drinking career.  On a whim he bought whiskey that was marketed to look like moonshine including being “bottled” in Mason jars.  He tried some and immediately declared that it was horrible, and then moved with it on at least two occasions.

I poured myself a shot of the corn whiskey.  I’d already been drinking some so it was easy to ignore the rubbing alcohol smell of the whiskey as I tossed it down my gullet. I poured the Viking a shot.  He seemed to think it wasn’t so bad.  He continued working on the gun.  I poured him another shot.  We had a few shots … that weren’t so terrible.

It took a while for the drunken Viking to assemble the gun because the Brick Gun company’s directions are not nearly as clear as Lego’s directions.  Lego, however, does not endorse Brick Gun’s products in any way.

Finally, the Desert Eagle was assembled including all the moving parts.  HOT!  I like guns.

Here is the Viking looking all crazed with a gun in his hand.  He looks all dirty and sexy.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I’m not sure when I had to report to work the first time, but I know I had some time to meet up with my friend, Darren.  I had met Darren the summer before.  He was an Melbournian tram driver who had moved to Bangkok and started a restaurant.  When I first met him I challenged his qualifications for restaurant-running and he had assured me that he was no more qualified than the next guy who loved food.

I fell in love.  Darren was charming and generous and fun.  He was also fabulously gay.  His Australian accent wasn’t too annoying; he didn’t call everyone “mate” and he didn’t sound like a guy from an Australian tourist board commercial.  The Ex and I had enjoyed Darren’s company – and his restaurant – on many occasions.

So when I arrived in Bangkok in the summer of 2001 I went to Darren’s restaurant soon after settling into my new home.  His restaurant called, I kid you not, Eat Me, was also his home.  Architecturally, the building was cool.  It was poured concrete with modern, square lines.  It had black-paned, swing out windows and French doors that opened out to a balcony that took up the entire front of the building’s second floor.

On the balcony there was outdoor furniture where it was pleasant to sit at night, provided mosquitoes didn’t like you too much.  My ankles seemed to be irresistible to the particular species of mosquito that flew around Eat Me, but I still sat on that balcony night after night.  It was nice, especially after the restaurant closed and Darren sat with us, drinking limoncello, or chocolate vodka – which he made by mixing melted chocolate with vodka – or any number of mixed drinks.  Oftentimes the mosquito population wasn’t quite as annoying when I was full of booze and there were geckos on the building’s walls, barking and eating.

Darren greeted me heartily.  It was that second summer in Thailand that Darren and I became very close.  Soon, we began going to gyms together.  Gyms, plural, because we’d purchase day passes at gyms all over the city.  We’d check in, go to our separate locker rooms to change, work out together, and then go to our separate locker rooms.  In my locker room I’d usually get naked so I could sit and relax in the sauna.  I love saunas.  Darren would similarly get naked and go to the sauna, but he didn’t just relax.  We didn’t talk details, but I got the very distinct impression that he more often than not hooked up with random strangers in the locker room.  We both left the gyms very refreshed.

With letting Darren know I was in town out of the way, I met up with another friend, Mickey.  I had also met Mickey the summer before.  He was an American law school student who was in the same study abroad program.  Actually, he had practiced law for years, and was returning for an LL.M. with an international law concentration.  After the summer program in 2000, Mickey completed his LL.M. at Golden Gate University School of Law, where Jesús happened to be getting his law degree.  A Master of Laws takes only one school year so after he finished up his schooling in San Francisco, he returned to Bangkok.

By the time I arrived in Bangkok, Mickey was well-ensconced in an apartment with his boyfriend, a Thai man-boy many years Mickey’s junior.  He was many years my junior and Mickey was significantly older than I.  Mickey was so old he had worked as an extra on early episodes of “Happy Days” which began the year after I was born.

On the second day I was in Bangkok I visited Mickey at his apartment, which was in a high rise.  I met his boyfriend, who seemed to do little more than sit around the apartment.  He was happy to meet me because I was someone other than Mickey.  The boyfriend had moved from his little town to Bangkok to be with Mickey and had few, if any, friends in the city, which was understandably huge and scary to him.

I was itching to go out and so was the boyfriend.  We’ll call him Ait.  Thais tend to have long names that they shorten to very easy to pronounce nicknames.  Their nicknames can change throughout their lives and they can have multiple nicknames at any given time, depending on their relationships.  A parent could call someone one name and her friends could call her something completely different.  This name fluidity doesn’t seem to make Thais uncomfortable; it would me.

So the day I met Ait, we went out to a club.  We drank.  We danced.  We drank.  We drank.  And then we ended up back in my new apartment fucking.

I had promised the Ex many, many times that I would not fuck anyone when I was in Bangkok without him.  It was my second night in the city and I was fucking my friend’s boyfriend.  My friend, who was silly in love with his boyfriend.

I felt pretty shitty.  But not nearly as shitty as I felt when Ait asked me if all foreign women’s pussies were as big as mine.  Thais are not known for their tact.  Actually, it’s just that they don’t think saying out loud what is obvious is tacky like us Westerners.  I was nice enough not to say that the reason my pussy felt so big was because it was a pussy, not Mickey’s ass, and because his dick was small.

I figured it was inevitable that I’d fuck when I was in Bangkok without my husband looking over my shoulder so it was a good thing I got that first fuck out of the way on my second day in the country.

That left me the rest of the summer for fucking.  And a few other things.

[To be continued.]

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

It was my last day in Chicago.  The day was bittersweet because the Viking and I would have to part ways.  He was coming home in three days anyway, but we would miss each other nonetheless.  We’re goofy like that.  He’ll get tired of me soon enough.

I decided on the trip that I don’t like king-size beds.  They are way too big for me.  If I’m sleeping in the same bed as someone chances are it’s because I want to share a bed.  A king bed makes it feel like I’m in the bed alone, which is fine, but only when I’m in bed alone.  When I share a bed with someone I want to be able to reach out and actually find a body.  (Preferably a live one.)  I’m not much of a cuddler, but I still want to be able to feel a body if I’m choosing to share a bed.

I packed my suitcase.  We had strewn our clothes about the room, and the toys had been put to use.  It was nice that the Viking was staying in the room so if I forgot anything he could bring it home.  I didn’t forget anything in my huge suitcase.  I was required to overpack because of the size of my suitcase.  The Ex and I had bought a set of luggage before we went to Thailand the first time.  When the Ex moved out he took the smaller pieces and left me the largest piece.  Now, unless it’s just a quick jaunt, the only suitcase I have has to be filled.  For this trip, the rope and toys took up the space, but the bag has to be checked because of the size.

These days the stupid-ass airlines charging for checking even one bag is just bullshit.  When I arrived in our hotel room and opened my suitcase, I noticed the contents had been rearranged; the flogger was on top whereas it had been under my clothes when I packed.  On top of everything was a “NOTIFICATION OF INSPECTION (NOI).”  Apparently if I had any prohibited items they were turned over to the proper authorities.  I’m glad they don’t think sex toys are “Hazardous Materials.”

After packing, the Viking and I went out in search of food and shopping.  We ate at Big Bowl, which apparently prides itself on using seasonal, local produce.  Yay, I don’t have to feel like I’m compromising my inner hippie in the Midwest.  Lunch was really quite good for a somewhat gimmicky (albeit small) chain restaurant.

Then we went shopping.  I’m not a big shopper.  I mostly get annoyed, and when it comes to shopping for intimate apparel, depressed.  The Viking wanted to go bra shopping with me, I think mostly because he wanted to see my boobies in a different setting, but I didn’t want to do that on vacation.  Vacations, after all, are supposed to be fun, not demoralizing.

Chicago has one of just a few of the Lego® stores on earth.  We walked into one of those vertical urban shopping malls and climbed a few escalators.  We knew we were close when in the well of the escalators there were figures made out of Lego blocks.  There was a giant spider and a big rat, made out of Lego bricks.  We went into the store, where there were many, many different sets.  There was also an area where individual blocks could be purchased individually.  While the individual bricks looked pretty, I couldn’t think of what to make with them.  I want to make some fun, funky jewelry with Lego blocks.

The Viking bought me a couple of the sets from the Architecture series. I’m going to have a lot of fun putting these together.  I really like Lego.  I’m a childish nerd.

There were stations where one could put together sets of three Lego people.  Their headgear, heads/faces, torsos, legs, and up to two accessories could be picked individually.  I had an idea considering Pride was coming up, so I got a set of three custom people.

We took our booty back to the room and fit the Lego sets into my luggage.  The Viking escorted me all the way to the airport, which was very much appreciated considering Chicago train stations have stairs, not escalators.  It would have been very difficult for me to carry my heavy-as-shit suitcase.

After the Viking dropped me off I went to my gate.  Luckily, close by was a bar where I had a couple of drinks.  While drinking them I began to play Plants vs. Zombies.  Then, as I entered the gate area I saw someone I know.  Someone I know from San Francisco.  It’s a small, small world.

We talked, but unfortunately we weren’t seated near each other, and the good ol’ days of easily being able to change seats are over.  But my friend texted me before take off and offered to buy me a drink.  Thank you very much.

The entire flight passed very quickly because I was killing zombies the whole time.  Once at home I saw that my baggage had again been inspected.  This time my Hitachi Magic Wand had been left on top of the other suitcase contents.

I had a great time in Chicago.  It’s a nice place to visit.  Would I want to live there?

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

When I woke up in the morning I was feeling much, much better.  We took a cab to Jam, in West Town, for brunch.  After putting our name in for a table, we walked around the neighborhood a bit.  The neighborhood was cute and arty, with some nice graffiti, like this creepy zombie dude.

From the looks of things, Chicago is a dog- friendly city, which of course Isis and I require.  We saw several pet-related businesses with cute, punny names.  Like Urban Out Sitters.  And Spotland Yard, which unfortunately appeared to be out of business.

But the best discovery by far was the bar/liquor store combination.  “Oh, you’re cutting me off?  Ok, I’ll take a bottle of cheap vodka to go.  Thank you.”  Cheap vodka because the bar/liquor store we went to was very divey.  Of course I like me a good dive bar.

The conveniently located dive bar/liquor store came in handy after we were seated outside in the courtyard adjoining the restaurant.  It was brunch so of course I wanted mimosas, but Jam doesn’t have a liquor license.  They had fresh squeezed orange juice though.  I popped into the the dive bar/liquor store for some cheap “champagne” and we were set.

Jam’s courtyard was shaded and cool.  Sunday’s weather was also significantly cooler than Saturday’s had been so the outdoor seating was rather nice.  The courtyard had a bunch of really interesting sculptures.  One was a tower of Tonka Trucks that had been allowed to get weathered and rusty.  Another looked like a horse made out of canvas.  It didn’t look creepy at all, I promise. These looked like cattle shells.  Or something like that.

Brunch was really good.  Really, really good.  First, we shared an appetizer portion of French toast served with rhubarb.  Y-U-M.  I had a take on eggs benedict with pork belly and pea hollandaise.  It was really good, but I thought the bread they used was too thick.  I ended up slicing it in half laterally so each bite could contain just a bit of bread, egg, pork, and sauce.  The Viking had a Spanish omelet.  Both were tasty.  I go on so because I really liked the place, as you can tell by this photo.  Or maybe it was the mimosas.

With our bellies full we walked towards the train.  Before we go to the train we saw a sign that indicated that downtown was only 2 1/2 miles away.  That’s an easy walk, especially when everything’s flat.  We walked through some pretty run-down areas, with a lot of boarded windows and medical supply stores.  Not much was open.  It was a Latino neighborhood, which reminded me of the Mission, only not nearly as lively.  We even passed a street vendor selling tacos.

I thought it was great.  In San Francisco we have a taco truck right outside our building.  The Viking, however, didn’t like that the neighborhood was so run down.  He definitely had a point.  I want to feel like I can walk at night alone in whatever neighborhood I live, and with so many empty places, it seems unlikely there.

We walked into the city, and after a stop at an Irish pub for fortification, walked to Navy Pier.  The folks that run the architectural river tour were nice enough to allow us to transfer our reservation from the night before.  We sat on the deck of the boat in full sun at the hottest time of the day.  To combat the heat, there was a bar on the boat.  Thank you vodka and soda.  All of them were very refreshing.

The tour was packed with information.  Both the Viking and I declared our love for architecture.  We’re going to look into a more detailed architectural tour, maybe focusing on particular styles.  Chicago is a great city for architecture.  It’ll be fun to explore further.  The Viking tends to like Neoclassical buildings while I like Art Deco a lot.

We walked back to our hotel.  On the way we decided that we would have a quickie before we had to meet friends of the Viking’s for dinner.  We walked faster.  I did, however, have to stop to take a picture of this fun sticker/graffiti combination.

Once in our room, we had a very fun, very quickie.  Thankfully we had time to shower before we had to walk to the restaurant because between all the walking all over the city and the fast and furious fucking, we were sweaty messes.

We ate at a Brazilian place.  The kind with a salad bar and lots of meat.  Lots and lots of meat.  One of our group was herself Brazilian so other than the meat and salad bar, we also had a variety of side dishes that non-Brazilians don’t know to ask for.

Dinner was good, but unlike the Brazilian places elsewhere, they did not have any chicken hearts.  I like chicken hearts, they remind me of my white trash childhood.  According to the floor manager, they are not allowed to serve chicken hearts.  None of us at the table could figure out why, if they served chicken, they could not serve all of the chicken.  We thought maybe it had to do with the city’s ban of foie gras, that a law might include all poultry offal.  (The ban ended in 2008.)

After dinner the Viking and I went to the bar on the 96th floor of the John Hancock Center.  Due to one of those damn support beams keeping the building up, we didn’t have much of a view from our seat.  I used the ladies’ room, which had a great view of the city skyline and Lake Michigan.  I told the Viking to go to the bathroom so he could take in such a beautiful view.  The men’s room, however, did not have windows at all.  Gender discrimination!

Then back to the hotel for zombie killing.  I’m really into Plants vs. Zombies.  However, I am no gamer.  Look, I made my own Zombatar.  Isn’t she cute?

I killed some zombies, we watched some tv, and napped some.  Don’t worry, we’re not uptight.  We did some fucking.  We put both the flogger and the njoy Eleven to very good use.  The Eleven is so fucking great.  Makes me come with it’s big coldness.  And the flogger feels just lovely on the buttocks.

I left Chicago the next day, so the story is obviously to be continued.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.