Random Rim Jobs

I taught acting and musical theater for in Korea for three years. Mostly to kids, but one of my classes, twice a week, was an adult class for Koreans – mostly in their mid-twenties – who spoke various degrees of English. It was the first week of December and I was going to take my class of five out to dinner and drinks after class. That same day, two new students – a guy and a girl – signed up for the class.  They were friends, but not too close.  The girl spoke more English than the guy; both were talented, had good voices, and looked like they could be cast in soap operas.

After class, we all walked to the local Korean BBQ restaurant; the two new students had been invited to join. Along the way, I started chatting up the new girl, whom, I was starting to realize, had a pretty large rack under that tight sweater of hers.  She revealed to me that she LOVED to drink soju, and got drunk every night.

And, low and behold, by then end of the night, we were all drunk and ready to go.  The group went its separate ways.  I asked the girl if I could walk her to the bus stop. She said, “Absolutely,” (well, “Absorutetry,”) and we walked to the nearest one. It was cold and rainy, and as we faced each other, I asked if I could keep her warm.  She said ok and I slipped my hands around her, under her sweater in the back, feeling her soft skin and her bra. Boldly, as I talked to her about random shit, my hands slowly moved from under her shirt in the back, to under her shirt in the front. I started squeezing her breasts, neither one acknowledging what I was doing until finally, I grabbed her and kissed her.

As we kissed, her hips kept grinding against mine. I knew the people around at the bus stop were starting to watch. I whispered in her ear, “Let’s go somewhere private,” but all she could do was moan her affirmation and nod her head while she kissed me.  I pulled her by the hand and we went back to the main street. I knew exactly where we were going. I took her to Black Angus, which was below street level and had stairs leading down to the entrance.

We walked down the stairs and sat on a bench in front of the closed Black Angus.  People above on the street were still walking and talking, with us in a dark corner, just steps away. I sat on the bench, unzipped my pants, pulled it out and she pulled her pants down.  She turned around and sat on my lap with her back to me.  As I slipped inside her, she bounced up and down on my cock, moaning as she rode me.

A picked her up and put her on the bench, kneeling in front of me.  I stood behind her.  I took her hair in my hand and gave her ass a few nice slaps and started pounding her from behind.  She moaned and took it and didn’t mind as I pushed her face into the wall, her cheek pressed up against it as I kept nailing her.

Since we hadn’t had the foresight to use protection, when it was time to cum, there was nothing else to do, but pull out and finish on her face.

I took her back to the bus stop, sent her home and went back to my apartment for a well-deserved night of sleep.

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 1)."

Staying with my mother turned out to be a disaster.  When I worked at the bar on the weekends I was often too amped to go right to bed.  When I lived alone this was not a problem; I'd invite coworkers over to hang out.  When I stayed with my mother, one night I invited one coworker, a close friend, Laura, over and my mother threw a fit.  Apparently, we made too much noise heating up food and talking.  My mother and I got into a huge shouting match right there in front of Laura.  I think she began to understand why I lived on my own when my mother lived so close and had an extra room.  That night I called my mother a cunt.  I called her a cunt because I knew she hated the word.  My mother and I knew how to push each others' buttons.

That fight made me realize that I could not stay with my mother for much longer.  My trip to Prague was not for a few more weeks; I hadn't finished paying for my plane ticket yet.  But I had to get the fuck out of my mother's place.  Laura had been talking to me about how crazy it was for me to go to Prague with Israel, a guy I'd only met (and fucked) once.  I know now that Laura wasn't and would never be an adventurous person; to this day she's never lived more than 20 miles from her parents and "long distance" travel – from LA to Hawaii – is a harrowing experience for her.  But I didn't know that then; at the time what she said made sense.

I got an apartment in Pasadena.  It was a cute studio apartment with hardwood floors, a separate kitchen complete with a milk door into the building's hallway, and a Murphy bed (in which I did not sleep).  Though it was a studio apartment it was much larger than the tiny place I'd been living in for years.  I felt like I was moving up.

Israel and I kept in touch.  He made it to Prague.  He said it was fucking cold.  He said it was damn cheap.  He told me he was getting a lot of writing done.  We sent each other post cards.  The ones I received had photos of beautiful buildings and bridges; the ones I sent were written with dirty things I wanted to do with him if we ever again saw each other.

I quit working at the book store.  I was really tired of the idiots who shopped in the mall.  I began working as many hours as I could in the bar.  Before I had a chance to worry about paying my new, higher rent, Israel returned to Pasadena.

He had tired of the cold, and had had his share of beer, and freaked the fuck out when he saw a dead body on the street.  He had also run out of money.  I'm not sure if we bothered to discuss it, but he moved in with me.  He picked up shifts waiting tables at Q's.  After all, he was the favored son there.  So favored that he got me some shifts waiting tables.

The day shifts were not particularly hot commodities.  I had to ask the cook what the specials were, and write them on the board we posted in front of the place.  While Q's was open for lunch, it really was a bar and a pool hall and did much better business at night; it just happened to be open during the day.  Any bartenders the boss was trying out would be given a few day shifts to see if they could cut it, and if they could put up with making no fucking money.

It was working one of the day shifts that I saw John Ritter.  He played pool but I don't think he bothered to try to choke down the mediocre bar food.

So Israel and I lived together.  He was the first guy with whom I attempted to live.  Since we hadn't discussed that we would be living together, we had no idea what our expectations of each other were.  At such a tender age I certainly didn't know what to expect.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

When I was 18 or 19 I met Israel.  His reputation had preceded him.  People at work had been talking about him for some time.  “Israel’s in France.”  “Israel will be back soon.”  The general consensus was that he was a great guy.

He was charming and cute and tall and had just gotten back from France.  That meant he was interesting.  That meant he had more to talk about than acting and LA.  At the time I lived and worked in Pasadena.  A good portion of the staff at Q’s – a bar/pool hall/restaurant – was trying to be in the entertainment industry in some way.  It was true, they were actors by day and waitresses, bartenders, and bouncers by night.  We had a soft-core porn actress, a bikini model, a few Groundlings wannabes, a screenwriter, someone who had been in Platoon, and of course “musicians.”

Israel, however, was an aspiring writer of deep, meaningful stuff – books, not movies.  He was well-read.  He knew things.

The night we met he went with me back to my tiny studio apartment.  We fucked.  But before we fucked he licked my armpit.  It was the most unusual and hottest thing anyone had ever done to me up to that point in my life.  I was smitten.

Only Israel was not back from France for long.  Within the week he went to the East Coast.  He had a plan to go there to visit some distant family member and save up money (or possibly get some money from the family member) while spending time writing.  He was then going to go to Prague.  It was the early 1990s; there was still this country called Czechoslovakia.  Communism was in the very recent past there and the city was supposed to be super-cheap and beautiful, both of which made Prague a very attractive destination for artistic types.

Israel wanted to go to Prague to have new experiences about which he could write.  But before he made his way there he invited me.

We had been talking on the phone since he left.  We had been having phone sex.  This was way back in the day before the Internet or the ubiquitous use of cell phones so we had to talk on land line phones, and for money.  Kids, there used to be this thing called long-distance charges, back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth.

Israel talked to me about Prague, about how interesting it would be.  At the time I had not ventured out of North America.  I don’t think I had been to Mexico yet.  I had been to British Columbia and Alberta with my family when I was a kid.  I had lived in California my whole life.  I was ready for something different.  I wanted an adventure.

He said I should go to Prague with him.  He said I should move to Prague with him.

I began the transition.  At the time I was making a lot of cash at work.  I was not an official tipped employee so all of my “tips” were tax-free and under-the-table.  I got tips for racking balls – pool balls, get your minds out of the gutter.  I was tipped – well, bribed – for moving people up on the waiting list for the best pool tables.  On Friday and Saturday nights it was not unusual for me to make $100 in cash.  On the way home from work I’d stop at an ATM and deposit my tips so I wasn’t tempted to spend the cash.

I was also still working at B. Dalton Books during the days.  The bookstore job covered my regular expenses, and the bar job’s earnings went toward my move to Prague.  I ordered a heavy coat from J. Crew.  That it was damn cold in Prague was one of my biggest fears.  I contacted a travel agency and set up a payment plan to buy the plane ticket to Prague.  (I didn’t have any credit cards at the time.)  I began selling off my cassettes to my friends.  I gave away other things.  I stored my stuff at my mother’s.  I stayed with my mother for a short time just before I was to leave.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

[A lovely, and sexy, story from one of my OkCupid paramours.]

Here’s the first one. I will tell you the story of my first time with a girl over in Korea. It’s not my craziest or wildest by any stretch, but what I thought of first … I will write you more later after this.

I worked at an ESL theme park in Korea. An ESL theme park? What’s that? It’s exactly what it sounds like … people would come to our theme park called English Village for the day to learn English and talk with white folk. The ticket booth was made to look like an airport’s Immigration Services area; we had these Korean women stamping passports and whatnot.

As part of our job, one of us would have to do a little passport stamping every day at immigration, so we hung out with the Korean women a little every day. For about two months I hung out with this girl, getting closer and closer to her. I learned that she was married, but going through a divorce.

On a Wednesday, a group of us had the day off, so we went out to the beach, which was four hours away. I asked the Korean girl if she wanted to go. She said yes, and I had a pretty good idea we were going to hook up on the trip. Just got that feeling (the same feeling I have about us hooking up … he he). But then her husband decided to make trouble and she had to stay home to talk with him. We were both very disappointed.

On Friday, when we returned from the beach, I asked her if she would like to come over for dinner since I was making pasta. She quickly agreed and after work she came over. It was only a few minutes until we were on my bed, making out, me grinding on top of her. I had heard Koreans were pretty conservative, but she had no problems and didn’t even try to stop me when I kissed her, felt her breasts, took her shirt off … or put my head between her legs to go down on her.

The sex was amazing, passionate, rough, hot, and everything else you’d want. When we were done, I decided we should eat and started boiling water for the pasta. During the 10-15 minutes it took for the water to boil, we got into it again and started round two. She was riding me hard when the water started boiling over. Not knowing which to discontinue, I came up with my best idea.

I pulled a folding chair over next to the stove. I had her kneel on it backwards, resting her arms and stomach on the back of the chair, so she was in a modified doggie position on the chair. I slipped inside her, started taking her from behind, one hand on the small of her back and the other hand stirring my pasta.

Damn it was hot, and I felt like a fucking pimp (any time you can multitask while having sex … ). I got a glimpse of us in the mirror … and while I thought my screwing/stirring was funny and amusing, I saw her face and she was all in. Her eyes were closed, she had that “not quite sure if it’s pain or pleasure” look on her face because she was feeling so good taking it.

For years I didn’t snore. At least no one ever told me I snored. That was probably because I always lived alone, and the few people I’d let spend the night didn’t want to tell me something so horrifying about myself.

When I thought I didn’t snore I was a little smug about it. I had grown up with a father who snored so loudly he disturbed the whole house. My step-mother didn’t sleep with my father more nights than she did because of his loud snoring.  And my sister snored.  But I didn’t, dammit.

My father was not overweight at all. He was actually quite slim and muscular. I obviously did not inherit this trait from him.

I did, however, inherit his crooked teeth, bad eyes, acne-prone skin, big nose, snoring, and bad knees. I also inherited his hair. My dad, though he has the same hair style for probably 50 years, has great hair. It’s thick and full and has, at the age of 60, only about ten grays.

So I have my father’s great hair. I still have no gray hair whatsoever (knock on wood), and balding is not in the realm of my possibility. Plus, my scalp very strong: Wads of hair can be pulled out with nary a notice from me.

But my knees. I was riding in the back of a cab on the way home from an overnight date.  The cabbie was very chatty.  Annoyingly so.  He wanted to talk about the weather, and the various neighborhoods through which we were driving.  My date had picked me up at my place the night before so I didn’t have my iPod with me.  That thing has saved me from stupid conversations countless times.

The cabbie expounded the virtues of San Francisco’s many hills and talked about them being good for walking.  The “conversation” up to that point had consisted of him talking and me grunting in agreement, but when he talked about walking the hills I actually had something to say.  I said walking up hills is great but that walking down hills hurt my knees.

The cab driver said I need to lose weight.  What?  So he repeated it.  He said that if I lost weight that my knees wouldn’t hurt.  Actually, no.  The same slim father who snores like a man three times his size also has shitty knees.  It hurts his knees, and as luck would have it, mine as well, to walk down hill.  That means I prefer to walk up hills and find the lowest grade, or stairs, for descending the heights of San Francisco.  That also means I shouldn’t have to put up with a cabbie telling me to lose weight.

So I told him to pull over.  He thought I should walk more then I’d walk more, and take money out of his pocket.  He didn’t seem to get it that I wanted out, many blocks before my original destination.  I had to raise my voice.  I said several times to let me out.  Finally he pulled over.  Unfortunately, I still tipped him.  I simply cannot not tip.

I also gave him another tip, not to tell his fares that they’re fat, that few people appreciate it.

I walked home the rest of the way.  I avoided walking down any hills, though, for fear of hurting my knees.

I cannot, however, avoid snoring.  I’ve been told sometimes it sounds quiet and sweet, while at other times it’s loud and not very lady-like.  Well, there’s really not much I can do so I just warn those who will sleep in the same bed, or even room, with me.  It’s not very sexy; I snore.

I swear.  True story.

This is not my story, but the story of Whiskey Dick, who told me a much better version live and in person over two years ago. The following is what I can remember of his very animated and colorful story.

Whiskey Dick was married when he and I were seeing each other.  I was married, too, so it was not an issue.  He and his wife, though living apart, had no plans to divorce, as she needed to be married in order to stay in the United States legally.  She was Russian.  They got along fine, and even socialized together on occasion.

One such occasion was his wife’s birthday.  She had rented one of those “limo” vans that was taking the party around to various bars around town.  At one of the bars Whiskey Dick met what he described as a very hot woman who also happened to be Russian.  He invited her to join the party.  And then he invited her to his home.

The day after the party they spent in bed in turns fucking and sleeping off their hangovers.  She told him she had a party to go to that night and asked if he wanted to join her.  The fucking was good, and the Russian Chick was hot so he agreed to go.

It wasn’t until they were on the way to the party that she said that the party was very private.  A very private sex party.  He was game.  The party was somewhere on 3rd St in the Dogpatch area (I think).

Whiskey Dick swore to me that he had never seen so many gorgeous women in one place in his life.  They were in various states of undress all over the large warehouse where the party took place.  Whiskey Dick’s date appeared to be quite popular with the crowd, as many greeted her with full open-mouthed kisses.

Whiskey Dick was in awe, but he tried not to show it.  He and his date made their way upstairs where the action was taking place.  There were bodies writhing everywhere.  Whiskey Dick and his date joined in.  They did not leave until the wee hours.

They went back to Whiskey Dick’s place, where they again spent the next day sleeping when they weren’t fucking.  Then the Russian Chick told Whiskey Dick she had a date that night.  That was fine with him as they had spent two days together and he had things to do.

Only she didn’t have her own phone and kept having to borrow Whiskey Dick’s.  He was getting a little annoyed.  After several phone calls she got ready for her date.  Her date picked her up at Whiskey Dick’s house in a very fancy car.  At the time Whiskey Dick lived around the corner from me, in the Mission, a neighborhood not known for its fancy cars.

Whiskey Dick thought that was it, that he had some fun fucking and partying with the Russian Chick but that they’d likely never see each other again.

Only the next day she showed up at Whiskey Dick’s house.  She seemed to think they were now some kind of item.  He told her that she could not stay with him.  She became irrational and abusive.  He left his own house, thinking that she’d not be there when he returned.

No such luck.  She was there, only no longer staking claim to Whiskey Dick’s room.  She had moved on, to his roommate.  His roommate that he could only describe as ugly.  She traipsed around the house barely dressed and hanging on the roommate, who along with being ugly also had himself a nasty little meth habit.

That’s when Whiskey Dick realized that the Russian Chick was nuts, the situation with his roommate had become untenable, and that he had to move.  He packed up his few possessions and moved in with his brother, sharing a room with him.

I swear.  True (hearsay) story.

When I first heard of people liking dry fucks it was in relation to HIV transmission in sub-Saharan Africa.  Apparently the culture is such that wet pussies are considered bad and dry ones provide more friction, which makes the guy feel like he’s got a big, manly cock.  Dry fucking is more likely to tear a condom, if one is used, and also more likely to tear vaginal and anal tissue, thereby making sexually transmissible infections more likely to be, well, transmitted.

Some sub-Saharan African women go so far as to artificially dry out their pussies so as to please their partners, and, to a degree I’m sure, themselves.

I like the feeling of a cock forcing its way into me when I’m not quite wet enough.

So in the morning when the Russian woke me up and told me he wanted to fuck me again I opened my legs.  I like my morning sex quiet, but when he shoved his nice thick cock in my sleepy pussy I couldn’t help but cry out.  Oh, but it felt so good.  Then he told me to turn over.  I happily got on my elbows and knees and let him plow away at me.  By this time I was definitely wet but it still hurt a bit.

It probably hurt due to the pounding he had given me the night before.  We met for drinks.  He’s a drinker.  I like me a drinking man.  I told him right away that I was sick, and then coughed repeatedly to prove my point.  He assured me that the cure for a bad cough was a shot of vodka.  He also told me that a shot of vodka is the cure for a lot of things, according to Russian lore.

After some drinks he suggested we fuck.  Yes, of course.  But first to the liquor store for more vodka.  By that time I had stopped coughing though .  Vodka is a cure-all.  Maybe I’m part Russian but just don’t know it.

We went to his place.  He lived in a neighborhood I had never been to before, though he swore it was within the confines of San Francisco.  It was … very much a bachelor pad.  He had warned me that it was a bachelor pad, but no amount of warning could have prepared me for the bathroom.  The state of the bathroom was disturbing.  It was a good thing I was horny and I already knew the Russian was a great fuck or that bathroom would have had me begging him to take me home.

Once in his bedroom we took our clothes off and commenced the fucking.  And the sucking, too.  Uncircumcised cocks are so much fun to suck.  They just are.  There are more places for my tongue to explore on an uncut cock.

I made a request of the Russian:  That he speak Russian.  I told him it didn’t matter what he said, just say it in Russian.  I have a thing for languages I don’t understand spoken to me during sexy times.  German, French, Thai, Spanish, and now Russian.  He assured me everything he said was absolutely filthy, which turned me on even more.

We fucked and then we slept, and in the morning he gave me a nice dry fuck.

I swear.  True story.

Slack tide.  The tide is neither coming in or going out; it just is.

On a long plane trip I get to the point where I don’t want the trip to end; I want to stay on the plane forever.   To never get there.  To just be in limbo forever.  Then there’s nothing to worry about.  Everything just is.

Always expecting something good.  It doesn’t have the chance to go bad because it’s not yet happened.  Nothing but looking up.  So positive.  None of the worries of going to a new place and having to adjust.  Just expectation.

The feeling goes between “Oh my god I have seven fucking hours to go?” to “Oh my, there are only seven hours until I’m actually there.  Fuck.”

Or that moment just before leaving the bathroom.  Gone to the bathroom.  Washed hands.  Hair and makeup checked.  Everything is good.  There’s only possibility on the other side of the door.

It’s a chance to breathe; an opportunity to be alone.  A time when the only future to think of is the immediate future:  What will happen when the plane lands?  What will happen when I rejoin the party?

No one ever thinks of the mortgage payment when leaving a bathroom, right?  No need to think of one’s sick parents at home when on a long plane trip – can’t do anything from thousands of feet in the sky.

If only time could give us the respite of slack tide more often ….

[Yes, I did get the idea from "Slack Tide," the latest episode of Dexter.  No, I am not a serial killer.]

I swear.  True story.

She hasn’t come by le classe de français yet but oh well. I’m sure she had a nice evening and has forgotten who the hell little ‘ol I am. Life is grand. Yeah. I could have talked to Amy this morning but I was busily typing and I also didn’t really want to know what went on. Beth’s wearing shorts today – she looks very nice, well, at least her legs. I have to start doing more with school. I don’t want to fail government and I can’t if I want to graduate, which I do. I have to register for American River College and also take placement tests some time this month. So even if I do live downtown, I can still go to school as long as I can afford it. I just don’t know though ’cause I don’t know what the hell is going on with Erica.

[Continued from "What Happened in Vegas, Went to Omaha (Part 2)."]

I flew into the Oakland Airport and took BART home.  Then, I went right away to a couple of friends’ house for Easter brunch.  The Ex was already there.  I was still wearing the clothes from the night before, was definitely hung over, and felt like shit about what I’d done in the guy’s hotel room.

I recall sitting on the friends’ couch with my sunglasses still on and feeling horrible.  Apparently I looked cool because one of the hosts told me I looked like a rock star.  Nice.  I didn’t feel anything like an actual cool rock star.

I had the Omaha guy’s phone number.  I called him from work to ask him the question I should have asked before we fucked bareback, whether he had any sexually transmitted infections.  He assured me he did not; I assured him of the same.  I also told him that I was on the Pill.

We got along pretty well.  We talked about things other than us fucking.  The next weekend the Ex was out of town so I called the Omaha guy and we had some good phone sex.  (Don’t EVER expect me to be monogamous in any way.)

The Omaha guy worked in a junk yard so he could talk on the phone pretty much whenever he wanted.  I was working in an office at the time and could easily shut my door so my secretary didn’t hear the dirty content of my half of the conversation.  Consequently, the Omaha guy and I talked a lot.  Omaha was two hours ahead of me in San Francisco so we’d have to take a break when he got off work.

I began going for a lot more walks.  At the time the Ex and I had Otter, our old, incontinent dachshund that was unable to go on walks of any length past the corner.  (She died in February 2008.)  We would not get Isis from my mother for three more years, when she was kicked out of her house after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia at age 58.

But I digress ….  So I went for walks under the guise of getting more exercise, but not walking Otter.  I had been doing the usual lame thing of gaining weight since we got married, so the Ex didn’t begrudge me my time “exercising.”  Which I was doing, because I walked while the Omaha guy and I talked on the phone.

Sometimes I talked on the phone in our place, a loft with absolutely no privacy.  I guess I thought I was being sneaky enough that the Ex wouldn’t know I was talking lovey-dovey to someone, not him.  He and I hadn’t talked like that pretty much since we were married, five years before.

One night I woke up but the Ex wasn’t in bed.  Somehow I knew there was something awry.  The Ex was in the downstairs bathroom with my phone, I assumed checking the phone’s call history.  After that I changed the name of the Omaha guy in my phone to something cryptic.

The Ex never said anything to me about this.  He still hasn’t, and there’s no reason to bring up now.  [Yes, he knows about Random Rim Jobs, but he chooses not to read it.]  He doesn’t know about all the times I cheated on him, and letting him know would only serve to hurt him.  As I like the guy (and live with him), there’s no reason to hurt him.

The Omaha guy last talked when he happened to be hosting a party.  He told me how much he was into a certain chick and I could tell he didn’t want to be distracted by me any longer.  It ended without hard feelings.  I suspect he’s fallen for the stereotypical Midwestern thing: married with a  kid or kids and be absolutely miserable.

I swear.  True story.