Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Bed for Four (Part 1)."]

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 me 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.

[Continued from "Christopher (Rhymes with) Spammer, Part 1."]

If I hadn’t already figured it out, the message which contained this was an indicator of the largest proportions:  “Do you have a problem taking charge. I mean, I’m not submissive, but would prefer if you had the ‘date’ planned out for us. There’s not much I would object to.”  Me thinks thou doth protest too much.  Yes, he was submissive; no, he didn’t want to have to worry about taking charge.

I took charge.  I told him what we would do on our date.  His true colors truly shined then.  He suddenly forgot how to use his brain.  In general, subs are a needy bunch.  I don’t have the patience nor the inclination to tell someone, step by excruciatingly detailed step, how to do anything.  He asked if he should take BART.  Take it or drive, not my concern.  I told him that if we got along we’d go to the Hot Tubs.  He told me he thought they were dirty.  He asked if a hotel room wouldn’t be better.  He asked how much hotel rooms cost.  He hadn’t seen me, so he didn’t know I look nothing like a fucking San Francisco tourism board.  Though he was emailing me, he had forgotten how to use the internet to check on hotel prices, etc.

He then wanted to see photos of me.  I referred him to the various places all over the internet where my photos can be found.  He still had trouble finding my photos because he had forgotten how to use the internet.

The night before our planned date he emailed saying he wouldn’t be able to make it, but that that night was free.  Too bad.  I had scheduled him for the next day, not that night.  A full two weeks later he contacted me again.  More than once he sent me emails titled “Tomorrow?”  No, not tomorrow; I plan ahead.

Finally, one night worked for both of us.  I told him where and when … and he flaked.

Between early February and mid-April he repeatedly contacted me asking if I was available that night or the night following.  I repeatedly told him that if he wanted to meet me he had to plan ahead.  When we did make a date, he flaked, again.

This guy’s pattern – which was probably helped with some liquid courage – was to email me saying how much he wanted to meet me right now, and then to flake when it came time to actually meet.  This happened even after I gave him my address and told him to just show up with booze in hand.  He was scared of “getting jumped” on BART because he would have alcohol on him.  Uh, they have these things that not only conceal the identity of what you’re carrying, but also make carrying much easier than holding a bottle of booze aloft.  His excuse that night?  His mother had unexpectedly stopped by.  Sexy!

Lest you, dear readers, think that I don’t give a guy a chance – or, in this case several chances – I again scheduled to meet him.  He texted whining about traffic.  I told him where to be.  I waited on the corner in front of the bar.  I texted.  I left.  I texted again, asking if he was that rude.  His response was that he didn’t see the point in walking up to me, saying, “You’re not my type,” and leaving.

And I agree, there wouldn’t be a point in doing that.  But how about saying hello?  How about sitting and talking over a drink?  Seems pretty silly to not even say hello after over three months of email wooing and several failed attempts at meeting.  This kind of bullshit is why I only meet someone for the first time in my neighborhood.

His tweet following our non-meeting:  “I’m such a dick! Don’t think it would have worked out. My bad”

Worked out?!  Meeting over a drink only doesn’t work out if the drinks are shitty, or spilled, or in some other way unable to be consumed.

I’m not so naive to not know he was referring to sex.  He saw me – if he saw me, and I have my doubts – and decided that he couldn’t have lowered his standards to a chubby/curvy woman of average height.  A woman who doesn’t wear high heels on a regular basis.  A woman who doesn’t wear shimmery lotion.  A woman whose scent choices are not sold at Victoria’s Secret.  A woman who is not a stripper.

I have nothing against strippers.  I’m not one.  I couldn’t be one for the reasons above.  Also, I’m too old.  Strippers, er, exotic dancers, work hard at being unattainable fantasies for their clients.  They’re tall and thin and wear heels and smell girlie.  And they’re off-limits.

Silly me, I was all average and attainable to this guy.  He didn’t know what the fuck to do.  If I liked the guy I would have fucked him, and I think he knew that.  Strippers, on the other hand, are not putting out for this guy.  Instead, he goes to strip clubs when he’s horny and fantasizes about the women who are way out of his league.  Because they’re doing their jobs well, he feels like he has a chance; he has a glimmer of hope that a woman as hot as a stripper will sit on his face and generally take charge in bed.

Only it doesn’t happen because he’s too afraid.  The ones who will actually fuck him aren’t hot enough for him, and the ones who are hot enough for him won’t actually fuck him.  Poor guy, he’s doomed to be unfulfilled and ashamed.  Fantasies are never the same as reality, that’s why they’re fantasies.  I should have known when he had a T-Shirt Hell t-shirt logo as his Twitter photo.

I’m not tall and thin?  You won’t be able to see shit when your face is being used as a seat so don’t worry your simple little brain with that one.

One of his tweets:  “Why do I want to try fisting someone so bad? Damn, I need a dirty whore, QUICK!!!”  He’s not willing to pay, he’s not willing to “settle” for less than his physical ideal.  He doesn’t need a dirty whore, he needs his mommy.

I swear.  True story.

In January 2010 I was contacted via email, as I am occasionally, by a stranger. The initial email was titled “Fisting” and contained a confession to being interested in the subject as well as a fear of being considered a “a perv, or a sicko” for his kinky interests, which he had theretofore kept to himself.

I get this kind of email probably because I am open and honest and unashamed of my own sexuality or by that of my many partners. Also, because it’s just email – because I’m not a “real” person – I’m safe.  I’m safe because I’m a faceless stranger on the internet.  I’m safe because until one talks – actually talks face-to-face – about his desires he doesn’t have to “out” himself as “a perv, or a sicko.”

I’m safe also because I’m encouraging.  My response to the initial email was to tell him that being a perv, or a sicko is part of the fun of having a dirty mind, that it might as well be embraced.  Our email exchange continued.  He told me he had been in a sexually incompatible marriage, and that he had considered hiring a professional, but that seemed “too risky.  And expensive!”

Ladies and gentlemen, isn’t your sexual fulfillment worth a few hundred dollars?  A few thousand dollars?  Being honest with yourself and others?  I simply cannot understand why someone who is afraid of his own desires, who worries about being labeled ill, wouldn’t hire a well-respected escort with whom he can be open and honest without fear of rejection or judgment.  You’re not paying for the sex, you’re paying for the faith that she’s probably seen “worse.”  An escort is a professional who gets paid for her discretion.  If she wants to keep you as a client, she doesn’t laugh at you or judge you.  You think you’re depraved?  You should’ve seen the last guy.

An escort is much like a waxer.  (Stay with me, people.)  An escort, like a waxer, sees her clients at their most vulnerable – with their ankles behind their heads.  Sure, you have some dark fantasies, but you’re not the only one, and you needn’t concern yourself with shame.  Your escort will take care of you so you can go out in the world anxiety-free.  Sure, you’re hirsute, but a few minutes behind closed doors and no one else needs to know.  Both waxer and escort suggest you come back about once a month.  I would suggest not seeing escort and waxer the same week every month – stagger those appointments.

I suggested the emailer and I meet.  He told me that he had a place in the East Bay, and said he didn’t have a lot of either time or money.  He also told me that he could almost “cum” from licking pussy.  And then I knew it:  This guy was ashamed that he had fantasies about being submissive to women.  I think it’s just plain silly to be ashamed to want a woman to sit on one’s face, but then I live in the sex-positive bubble known as San Francisco.

We scheduled a date to meet.  He told me he wanted a woman to squirt on him.  More submissiveness.  I want to make clear that a man being submissive to a woman is not a negative thing, does not make him any less of a man, yet he was only letting me know this about him in bits and pieces because he thought it was something that was shameful to disclose.  That was probably one of the major reasons his marriage was sexually incompatible, he didn’t tell his wife what he wanted.

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from guest writer Dick Cramden's "First Date (Part 2)."]

When I returned, I had a bag into which I had put the instruments of further pleasure.  The first thing I removed was a long satin scarf.  I love silk, but satin is cool and smooth, and heavier than silk.  Lightly, I let the edge of the scarf graze your skin from your left foot, slowly up your left leg, down between your thighs and over your pussy, over your tummy, over your right breast then over your left, then down and up between them, over your neck, over your chin, over your mouth, your nose, your eyes.

I folded the scarf length wise once.  Then again.  Then I used it to blindfold you.  Covering your forehead, eyes, and half your nose, I tied the scarf on the side of your head.

You heard me go into the bag.  Then you heard nothing for a moment.  A long moment.

You heard a few clicks, but nothing else.  Then music, and soft sultry singing, a song sung in French covered you like a blanket.

Suddenly you felt the cool touch of another scarf starting on your right foot and moving slowly up your body. It slid over your left breast and across your left arm.  A moment later you felt it around your wrist, and your arm was pulled slightly upward as I tied your left arm to the headboard.

Another scarf made its way from your left foot up your body, across your right breast, right arm … and soon your right arm was likewise tied to the headboard.

And there you were, my lover, unable to move, unable to know what the next sensation would be.  My sex toy, willfully submitted to let me have my way with you.

I let my fingers slide over your body until my hand came to a rest on your cheek.  Your lips sought out my thumb and sucked it into your mouth.  I removed my thumb and replaced it with my tongue so we could share a long, lust-filled kiss.  You could sense from it that I wanted to fuck you.  As we kissed my hand slid down your body.  Straight down to your sopping wet pussy.  My middle and ring fingers started to encircle your opening.  Your hips started to undulate to the rhythm of my fingers.

Suddenly, both fingers plunged into you.  Your hips raised up grinding your clit into the palm of my hand.  You moaned into my mouth.  My fingers rubbed the wet, velvety skin inside you, and you moaned more.  I moved my hand so that my thumb could rub back and forth over your clit as I kept rubbing and massaging you from the inside, and you moaned more.  Your legs started to move around, and I pulled my hand from your sex and I said, “Don’t move.”  You could feel that I left the bed.

There was no sound for a moment.  A long moment.

[To be continued ….]

1:01 AM

Asked Henry if he thought Madonna was sexy and if he’d like to have sex with her.  He said yes to both accounts and said he’d like the challenge to overtake her in bed.  Now that doesn’t sound like Henry at all.  I mean it doesn’t go along with the previous image I had of him – the sweet Catholic virgin mama’s boy.  But I think he’s proven to me that what you see is not what you get.  But after I knew he had sex, I thought he’d be really quiet in uniform position, I don’t know, sort of boring.  But then I should have remembered the six hours he said.  Anyway, he also said the thought of physical force during sex didn’t really excite him – games and domination don’t really have to include physical force.  He just surprises me all the time.  Now I’m jealous – do I do that to him?  Does he want me to?  I want to be mysterious and interesting.  Now I have to rethink all my fantasies – not that I usually mind.  The thing about him liking a challenge – wow.  Am I being too easy?  Shit.  I hate it when it’s too easy for me to get things – I lose interest.  I’ll have to ask him if he does.  I think they got a bird upstairs or something ’cause I can hear a very loud bird.  Oh he said he’d take me to Club Lingerie to see Duchess de Sade .  Oh, how sweet, I’m “dating” someone.  I’d like to see how he is with Barb (lead singer, ex-stripper, body piercing that Henry has seen), Kirby (bass player, lots of tattoos), and the drummer (forgot her name ’cause he doesn’t talk about her as much).  I wonder if he is now or has in the past had sex with them.  And of course I couldn’t just come out and ask him for three reasons:  1) I wouldn’t want him to know that I’m that interested in knowing; 2) I would be afraid of the answer – what if he’s fucking them all at every practice? and 3) he wouldn’t tell me anyway.  This guy, I don’t know.

[Continued from Dick Cramden's "First Date."]

With my hands I started to rub and massage your legs, one at a time.  Feeling your left calf, then your right.  Feeling your right thigh, then your left.  My hand stopped, palm resting on your upper left thigh, just below your sweet, sweet pussy.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I could hear it pounding in my ears.

Would you be as wet as I was hard?  As I slid my hand up slowly, the edge of my index finger started to rub up against your swollen labia.  They felt hot.  Your eyes closed as my finger split them and slid up between them.  To my delight you were wet.  Very wet.

Slowly I slid my finger back and forth, just along the edges of your lips, not putting pressure to enter your vagina.  Not yet.  A soft moan escaped your lips.  That encouraged me to continue.  I continued my slow stroking of your pussy as my finger became coated with your excitement.  It seemed with every stroke your pussy was getting wetter and wetter.

In my mind I wanted nothing more than to rip off my clothes, push you back onto the bed and plunge my hard and hungry cock deep into your sweet hole and feel you all around me.

I reminded myself that there would be time enough for that.  Later.

I slowly pulled my finger back from between your lips, and gave your engorged and slick clit a quick swirl before my finger retreated entirely.  Your knees almost buckled as you moaned again, a little more loudly.

I stood up, facing you, and looked into your sweet candle-illuminated face.  I stuck my finger into my mouth and licked your juices from it.  Your juices only fed my desire.  I pulled my finger from my mouth and slowly pushed it into yours.  You sucked on it, and of course I imagined my cock there in my finger’s place.  I reminded myself there would be time enough for that, too.  Later.

I lowered my head to your breast.  I kissed and licked and nibbled gently all around one breast as my hand cupped and fondled the other.  Seconds turned to minutes as I fondled, kneaded, kissed, sucked all around your wonderful tits … never touching your erect nipples.  As I stood up I took each nipple gently between a thumb and forefinger.  Then I began to squeeze them.  To rotate them slightly.  I applied a little more pressure with each passing second, careful not to cross the threshold into pain.

I looked into your eyes and said, “I am going to pull the bedspread off the bed.  And after I do, I want you to lie back.  Arms outstretched.  Legs open.  Comfortable.  And after you are comfortable, don’t move.”

I pulled you by your nipples closer to me which caused you to gasp just a little.  I caught your open mouth with mine and our tongues dance for just a moment.  Then I let go and moved away.

Neatly I folded the bedspread, as I peeled it off the bed.  As it hit the floor, you felt it brush up against the back of your ankles.

I helped you step back.  Out from the panties which were still around your feet.  Over the bedspread.  Onto the bed.  The bed.

Your ass found its spot, right in the middle of the large bed.  Dutifully, you spread your legs and stretched out your arms.  The warm candlelight cast your skin in an alabaster glow.  Lying between the two candles, you looked like my personal altar of sex.  Which that night, is what you were.

As I left the room, I looked back over my shoulder and said, “Don’t move.”

Seconds turn to minutes.

[To be continued ….]

Fucking so many different people allows me to be so many different people. I am a different me with each of them.  But I’m also not phony with any of them; I’m me, just a different me.

Sometimes it’s odd when they meet each other, but I need to get over that feeling since I live in San Francisco where everyone has fucked everyone else.

With some people I’m a top, with others I’m a bottom.  With some people I’m both a top and a bottom.  Some people spank me.  Some people slap me.  Some people fuck my ass.  I fuck some ass.  I lick ass.  My ass gets licked.  I bury my face in pussy.  I sit on faces.  Sometimes it’s gentle, sometimes it’s rough.  Some people thrill me with their conversation.  Some people bore me.  Some look good.  Some look really good.  Some look so good I’m shocked they want to have sex with me.  Some cocks I suck.  Most cocks I suck.  Some cocks go down my throat.  Some come goes down my throat.  Some come goes on my face.  Some come goes on my tits.  Some come I use as lube.  Some people fist me.  Some people I fist.  Some people tie me up.  Some people I tie up.

The possibilities are nearly endless.  Sure, there are commonalities, because I’m always there, but because of the other people I’m allowed to sexually express myself in a variety of ways.

It depends on my mood and the vibe I get off the other person, or persons.  I’ve had great sex with some people and downright shitty sex with others.  The shitty sex generally occurred with people who can’t get over themselves in some way.  People who aren’t comfortable in their bodies or who are ashamed of their desires or who don’t have confidence in their skills tend to be not all that much fun in bed.  Sex isn’t a serious thing; mistakes are ok and laughing is encouraged.

Sometimes I have orgasms, sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes they have orgasms, sometimes they don’t.  Not having an orgasm isn’t the end of the world, though I am particularly proud of myself when I elicit an orgasm from a body, mine or someone else’s.  Different kinds of orgasms are just amazing to me.  The ones that make me scream.  The ones that make me cry.  The ones that make me laugh.  The ones that make me feel mean.  The ones that make me feel tired.  The ones that make me feel powerful.  The ones that make me feel smug.  The ones that make me grateful to be alive.  The ones that make me forget I am alive.  The ones that make me repeatedly thank the person who helped me achieve them.

Each person gets a different me.  Each person who fucks me more than once gets a different me each time.  It’s like roulette – good luck.

I swear.  True story.