Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.I’m Not Complaining (5)
Posted on September 12, 2011[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.
More Bras
Posted on September 10, 2011I 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.
I’m Not Complaining (4)
Posted on September 08, 2011[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.
I’m Not Complaining (1)
Posted on August 28, 2011Really, 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.
It Seemed Promising (Part 4)
Posted on August 16, 2011[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.
It Seemed Promising (Part 3)
Posted on August 15, 2011[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.
It Seemed Promising (Part 2)
Posted on August 13, 2011[Continued from "It Seemed Promising (Part 1)."]
He picked the bar, which was walking distance from my house. In the mean time, the Twitter woman I was to meet said she was having dinner with friends and she would contact me afterwards to see about meeting up for drinks.
I got ready for my sort-of date. The Viking got ready for his definitely-a-date. The Viking was so cute in his nervousness. He was so nervous we decided to fuck. Nothing like fucking to get over being nervous about fucking.
Hilariously, the Viking thought we would fuck but that he wouldn’t come in an effort to save himself for his date. I know the Viking and I knew he wouldn’t have any trouble with performance after a couple of hours –he would have been good to go much quicker than that – so he had himself an edge-filing orgasm to, you know, take the edge off.
I was ready to go but it wasn’t quite time for me to leave when the buzzer sounded. Uh, shit, I had to get out; the Viking’s date had arrived. I grabbed my stuff, kissed the Viking goodbye, and ran out the back door. What I hadn’t counted on was that it had rained that day and the walkway between the backyard and the back gate was flooded; I hiked up my skirt and made my way through it.
I found the bar and sat down. In my haste I had forgotten to get any cash and the bar most definitely looked like the kind of bar that only accepted cash. Sitting at the bar I looked around a bit. There was no one behind the bar. There were three other people sitting at the bar. There were a couple of people playing pool. That was it. On a Saturday night.
I waited. I looked around. For a bit I thought one of the patrons might be the bartender, but too lazy to get behind the bar. I heard noises from a back room. I waited.
During the waiting period I had time to text the guy I was meeting. He had texted me earlier that day to ask what he should call me. That happens a lot because I don’t give my name out too freely; many know me as Shazam.
I had arrived at the bar early because of my hasty exit from the apartment; I wasn’t ready to meet the Viking’s date, and she probably wasn’t ready to meet me. I texted the guy that I was at the bar already and that I wasn’t impressed with the service; I still had not gotten a drink. Then I texted that I liked the divey quality of the bar and told him what I was wearing.
He asked to see what I was wearing. Uh, dude, when you show up you’ll see it. Then he asked me where I was. Uh, dude, I’m at the bar where we agreed to meet. And then it hit me that the guy I was texting had never named himself; I had assumed it was the guy I was to meet that night because I had given him my number when we confirmed the time and place to meet.
I had also given my number to a few other guys. So I admitted to the guy I was texting that I didn’t know who he was. He was incredulous. I let him know that I have a lot of guys texting me. I think he was hurt. He told me to have a nice night and I’ve not heard from him since.
In the mean time, I finally got a drink. Yes, the bar was cash only. I had a $10 bill in my wallet and that was it; I could afford one drink. I really wanted the guy to show up.
When I was nursing my drink a song came on the jukebox. The jukebox was old school, but not oldest school; there weren’t any 45s in it, it had CDs. I recognized the song, as did the people playing pool behind me. Only they didn’t know who it was. Rather, they didn’t know the band, they knew the singer. Finally, after no one had a clue I had to yell out, “Black Sabbath.”
I didn’t know at the time, but my date had already arrived ….
I swear. True story.
