Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.That’s a lot of Dick (1)
Posted on September 15, 2011As per usual I had several messages in my OkCupid message inbox. At least one was probably written by someone with the reading comprehension of a toddler, at least one was probably trying to set up a meeting, and one was from a guy who claimed he didn’t message many women.
He claimed not only in his message to me that he didn’t message many women, and so my profile must have really been special to make him do so, but the text in his profile indicated that it wasn’t his habit to message ladies because he was a busy guy. He was busy traveling to England, where he grew up so he had a British accent, and Italy, from where his mother’s family hailed so he spoke Italian, going to medical school, and fixing up the house he just bought in Lincoln Park. Oh, and he loved to cook – Italian, of course, since that was the food his mama fed him. Did I mention that he was also really cute, 6’6″ tall, and in really good shape?
I suppose I was supposed to feel special because he did take the time and effort to send me a message. I’m not sure how special I felt, but I did respond by giving him my YIM user name so we could chat some time. I didn’t bother telling him when I’d be online and changing my YIM status from “invisible” to “available” however, just told him that if he felt like chatting to hit me up and I might respond.
I believe it was a Saturday afternoon that I saw that he has instant messaged me. I responded. The conversation began innocently enough and then he asked what so many guys have asked before, “I hope I’m not being to forward, but can I ask you a question?”
That is always followed by a question of the sexual nature. Always. He asked if I had ever been with more than one guy at a time. Yes. He asked if I had done DP. Yes. He asked if I had done DP with “larger” guys.
Here is where I had to have him clarify. “Larger” could mean a lot, depending on who’s defining it. Larger is in the hand of the beholder. “Larger” to him meant 10″.
That’s a lot of dick.
He claimed that he and his friends, two of whom had 10″ penises and none of whom had less than 8″ of cock, were looking for a woman who’d be willing to entertain all of them. I asked if he has some sort of rule about the penis size of the guys with whom he hung out, and he swore it was just a coincidence. I responded that I would have to work my way up to taking two 10″ cocks in me, but that I was certainly willing to try.
I was willing to try provided we all had chemistry. The guys had done the sort of thing together before, he claimed, with a female friend who knew they were all “larger” and who took on the challenge. Unfortunately, she had moved away a couple of months before.
I said we could meet to see if we got along and then I could meet the other guys. It was convenient since we were in the same neighborhood. I also gave him suggestions for finding other ladies willing to entertain the group since it’s always good to cast a wide net.
He asked about my measurements. When I told him my bra size he said it was hard to believe. Harder to believe a 34DDDD rack – something for which bras are mass manufactured – or a 10″ cock, something that’s seen mostly in movies?
To be continued ….
I swear. True story.
Winter Coat
Posted on December 21, 2010Until December 18, 2010, I lived in California for 37 years. I was born and raised in northern California, and lived a short stint (six years) as an adult in southern California (San Gabriel Valley) before I returned to the north. But it’s always been California. Always.
When my grandmother died I went to Oklahoma for her funeral. Both my grandmother and father were born in Norman, Oklahoma, which is not far from Oklahoma City. Until I went to my grandmother’s funeral I had never been to the Sooner State. Once I was there – in January a few years back – I was glad I had been born in California.
That is not to say Oklahoma is a bad state per se, or that I’m a snob (though in some areas I am), but I’m glad I was not raised in an environment where getting married and having babies by age 25 was the be-all and end-all. Also, had I grown up in Oklahoma, I probably would have thought an IROC was a cool car. I would have had to have a car, IROC or no.
Instead, I grew up in California thanks to my parents meeting in college at Humboldt State back in 1968. They were married a few months later, and my sister was born a few months after that. According to my mother, I was the result of a plan by her and a drunken camping trip by my father a few years later; my sister and I are four years apart with both of our birthdays in May.
But I digress. I was in Oklahoma in January a few years ago for my grandmother’s funeral. It was cold. It was fucking cold. I spent most of the time in my rental car because it was so cold, but we (my sister and step-brother and I) took the opportunity to visit the memorial to the Oklahoma City bombing. Even though the museum was closed when we went, and the reflecting pool was frozen, it was still powerful to see the chairs that represented those who had died in the explosion.
I’m pretty sure I brought my one winter coat (as opposed to jacket), which I had bought in 1992 or 1993 from J. Crew. I had bought in preparation for a move to Prague that never happened. In my subsequent years living in southern California I definitely didn’t need all of it, and I only occasionally needed all of it once I moved back to northern California (where I had grown up).
Let me explain “all of it” part, above. The coat was versatile. It consisted of an outer shell that fell to mid-thigh. That could be worn alone and I could snap on a hood. The shell had a lining that was itself a down coat that could be worn alone. The sleeves could be removed from down portion of the coat, and the resulting vest could also be worn on its own. The coat could do a lot.
It could do a lot in cold weather. And I didn’t have much cold weather, but the coat did occasionally come in handy for trips to cold places, like my grandmother’s funeral. Otherwise, it hung in the closets of the various places I worked and took up space. Every time I moved, it moved with me.
Now that I’ve moved to Chicago in December I’m finally able to use the coat – a lot. Every time I go outside I wear the full coat (sans hood, which I can’t find) and it’s been doing an excellent job of keeping me warm. Sometimes too warm. I’ve been told that that’s not a worry, because right now it’s relatively warm compared to what it’ll be in January and February.
I swear. True story.
Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 8)
Posted on December 04, 2010[Continued from "Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 7)."]
The following month I had to leave the country for my visa trip. Actually leave the country physically, not just let my passport make the trip. Darren, though he had a business in the country, was still not able to stay in Thailand indefinitely. We decided to go on a trip to Malaysia together. Darren had a friend on the small island of Panang.
The flight there was almost empty, and because this was before 2001, we could run around the cabin willy-nilly. Also, because it was an international flight the booze was free. We were picked up at the airport by Darren’s friend, who drove us to his family’s home. His mother served us orange juice while we sat around awkwardly. I wasn’t sure if we were to stay at the guy’s family’s house; Darren had told me not to worry about the accommodations.
After we finished our juice the three of us left the house and Darren and I were soon dropped off. I was confused. Darren had apparently not arranged for accommodations. We were left, relatively late in the evening, to find a place to sleep. We walked around to a few hotels, with Darren each time asking for the “industry” price.
We “settled” on a suite in a very nice hotel. My budget was limited but Darren promised to pay what I could not. It was because of that that I didn’t complain when I had to sleep on a cot in the entry way of the suite. The room’s bed was taken up by Darren and his friend, who showed up after we had secured a room.
By this time I realized that Darren’s friend was not just a friend. Darren had a boyfriend in Bangkok, but apparently he also had “friends” in other places that were easy to go to on visa trips. There was a door between the entry way and the bedroom of the suite so I really didn’t care what they did there.
One of the reasons I will always remember that hotel on Panang Island, Malaysia was because it had such great water pressure. Also, that the hotel was sparsely populated. I first realized the water pressure was great when we went to the pool, adjacent to which were men’s and women’s gyms and locker rooms. Before we went in the pool we were to rinse off in the locker rooms’ showers.
I rinsed quickly and then went to the pool that had a view of the straight that ran between the island and the mainland. There were strategically placed palm
trees and everything – it looked like a fancy resort. What I didn’t realize from all my time in Thailand, the only Southeast Asian country to never have been colonized, was that the Colonial architecture was common and that the whole island was a resort to, in this case, the British. The Chinese had more of an influence on the island while the country had been a British colony, which was reflected in the written language – “cent” was “cen” on the coins, but our hotel had a decidedly more Western influence.
The three of us were the only ones at the pool. It definitely was not high tourist time there on Panang. We swam around some and then the guys went back to the room. To leave them some time to be alone I decided to swim some more. When I got bored I again showered in the women’s locker room.
I noticed the shower head was of the detachable, massaging kind. The water spray could be adjusted from gentle shower to pulsing focused concentration. I used the pulse/massage setting and fixed it right on my clit. The water pressure was glorious. Usually I feel guilty about wasting water when masturbating in the shower, but Southeast Asia has plenty of water; I’ve never seen it rain harder.
I was the only person in the women’s locker room so I didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing me, or even wanting me to hurry up. I spent about a half an hour in the shower with the water massaging my clit until I finally came. Then, for good measure, I came again. I also washed myself.
By the time I got back to our room, Darren and his friend were done with whatever they were doing. Later that night, I took another lengthy shower. The room’s water pressure was great, too. Darren knew what was up when I emerged from the bathroom looking extremely satisfied.
We did some touristy things around Panang, took a ferry to the mainland, and ate at some great street food carts, but what I remember most is that water pressure.
I swear. True story.
[To be continued.]
Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 7)
Posted on October 17, 2010[Continued from "Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 6)."]
The summer before, when I was in Thailand to study abroad, I had arranged for a student visa so I could stay in the country for the full three months. If an American passport holder does no such pre-arranging, then the visa-upon-entry of 30 days applies.
My second summer in Thailand I didn’t bother to pre-arrange for an extended-stay visa. I wasn’t a student, and I wasn’t sure if the law firm for which I worked would sponsor me. No matter, that meant I had to leave Thailand every 30 days to renew my visa. I was looking forward to traveling in the area.
Towards the end of my first month I realized I was short on time for planning any travel out of the country. I talked to my friend Mike, whom I’d met in the study abroad program the summer before. Mike and I had worked together at a law firm the summer before. We had also gone out to clubs a lot the summer before. Mike was one of those foreigners who loved Thailand and its people. He liked to schmooze. He liked being someone who knew how to make things happen.
So of course he knew someone who could help me with my visa problem. Mike told me the guy was an expatriate American who had been living in Thailand practically forever. He said I’d like him. He gave me a phone number.
I called and talked to a pleasant enough sounding man. He said I’d pay and leave my passport. My passport, along with many others, would be taking a trip to a border, where it would be stamped with another 30 day visa-upon-entry. My passport would then be returned to me and I’d be able to legally stay in the country for another month. Very much illegal, which is why I had to pay a premium for the service. The man gave me an address and we set up a time for a meeting.
I was told to go ahead and walk through the house’s gate, that the dogs were harmless. There are a lot of dogs in Thailand: A shit ton of strays that travel in packs and take over empty lots for their base of operations, but even the dogs that people keep as pets tend to wander and usually aren’t fixed; they all looked pretty scraggly. The dogs in the visa guy’s yard didn’t bug me, but I didn’t know where to go.
There were a few cars in the yard. It was unclear where the house’s front door was. Finally, I found a bunch of shoes by a door, a clear sign in Asia that that was the proper door. I knocked. A teenager came to the door and let me in. After I deposited my shoes outside I was led through a series of rooms, one of which had a few children deposited in front of a television.
The teen who led me through the house – a very messy, extremely cluttered house – called to her father at the doorway of an office of sorts. I introduced myself to a gray haired man who looked to be his 50s, but was truthfully probably younger – drink and tropical sun had done a number on the guy. So he was the father of all the kids. Ok. He was white, they looked Thai, so I could assume their mother – if there was just one mother – was Thai (she was nowhere to be seen).
The man, along with looking older than his age, was also fat and sweaty. Before his teen daughter left the room he asked her to bring him a fresh shirt. She returned with the clean shirt, and he had her wait while he – and I so wish I were kidding – took off his shirt, which he then used to wipe down his face, the back of his neck, and his arm pits. He then donned the fresh shirt so we could get down to business.
Business was him explaining to me that he had done this many times before, that my passport would take a trip under the guise of me taking a trip, that I was to pay cash upfront and leave my passport, and that I could return for my stamped passport in about a week. If it wasn’t for the fact that Mike had referred me to the guy and that I was in a visa pickle, I would have run away – with my passport. Instead, I turned over a rather large chunk of cash – almost as much as I would have spent if I had actually traveled out of the country – and my passport to this guy who, if he lived in the US would have been called white trash. (I can do that, being as I’ve got white trash roots and all.) He, along with many white expatriates in Thailand, had status only because they were white.
I talked to Mike about the guy and was incredulous that he’d think I’d like the guy. Mike admitted that he thought the guy was just as repulsive as I did, but that he provided a good service and didn’t want me to be too creeped out before I met him. Thanks, Mike.
About a week later I received my passport with a few additional stamps. According to my passport, I entered Malaysia on 21 June, 2001, and re-entered Thailand on 25 June, 2001. I did not actually go to Malaysia for another month, but that’s another story.
I swear. True story.
[To be continued.]
Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 6)
Posted on October 16, 2010[Continued from "Thailand, Revisited, Reworked (Part 5)."]
Bee and I hung out not only at Eat Me, but also went out to clubs together. At the time most of the clubs were 18-and-over if they checked IDs at all. We went to dance clubs and danced to shitty dance music well into the night.
And when Bee had to go home, I often stayed out even longer. It has since changed, but back in 2001 when the regular clubs in Bangkok closed one need only to look around a bit to find after hours clubs. These clubs were in no way secret; some were at street level.
It was at one of these after hours clubs that I met a guy. He spoke English very well, and we got along well enough. Soon, we were in his car on the way to get a room. I think at the time I was worried what the guys who lived and worked in the auto shop on the ground floor of my building would think of me bringing back a second guy in as many weeks to my place. I needn’t have worried; Thais are very discreet. And don’t give a shit about foreigners.
I had not fully comprehended that the night I was in the guy’s car and we were driving to find a room. We were driving far. We drove almost all the way to the airport, he said because he was worried about being recognized. While Thais are discreet, they are also known to gossip, and to have many connections. The guy was married, and didn’t want to see anyone either he or his wife knew.
Once at the airport hotel, I mentioned that we needed condoms. Luckily, the hotel clerk had some he could sell to the guy. We went up to the sparsely appointed room, by this time both of us feeling rather shy. Once we were in the room with condoms I figured we might as well fuck; it would have been even more awkward if I asked to be taken home at that point.
We fucked a couple of times and then made our way back to the car for the long ride back to my place. I don’t think we bothered to exchange phone numbers.
Because I went out so much I sometimes showed up to class hung over. Mostly it was just a matter of not having gotten enough sleep, but one time in particular, I probably should have called in sick.
In the cab drive on the way over I nearly vomited. The cabs are air conditioned, but when one is very hung over and nauseous, any amount of humid heat is too much. When I got to class I made it a point to keep the lights off. There were windows so it wasn’t dark, but the light was less harsh – and less painful – without the fluorescent tubes illuminated.
My students could tell there was something off with me. I asked where I could buy some water, some very cold water. My students offered to get some for me, but I didn’t think I should take advantage of them. My students were very sweet, and Thais in general are very helpful, but I didn’t want to act like I was better than them, or make them think they had to do my bidding.
I didn’t know the campus very well, so I asked for directions to where I could by myself some water. However, my brain was not fully functioning. My brain was barely keeping my autonomic nervous system functioning. I couldn’t understand the directions. I asked one of the students to take me to buy some water. The rest of the students were to speak English to each other in the interim.
I confided in my escort that I had been out the night before. She said she knew because she could smell it on me. Wow, what a shitty teacher I was.
I swear. True story.
[To be continued.]
Alex & Brendan (Part 2)
Posted on October 11, 2010[Continued from "Alex & Brendan (Part 1)."]
Alex wore ugly shirts and sweaters. Think Bill Cosby in his ugliest sweater days. I talked to him about this, and he didn’t deny it. He said he knew what ugly was, but that he didn’t know what looked good, so he figured he’d just be the ugly shirt guy. That makes a kind of beautiful sense that is so Alex.
He determined shoes were good based on their country of provenance. Made in China? Not so much. “They must be good, they’re Italian,” is how he described a pair of new dress shoes he had bought.
Alex was obsessed with airplanes. He could identify the make and model of a commercial airliner as it flew over the “beach” (outdoor area nowhere near a body of water) at our school. He was particularly interested in cases that involved plane crashes, especially if they crashed on international borders (both Alex and I had international law concentrations in law school). He had model planes, and books about planes. He schooled me on the possibly inferior composite material used by Airbus.
After law school Alex and I stayed in touch. He started seeing a guy, Brendan, who was at the time himself in law school. The two-lawyer couple is incredibly common, probably because there’s nothing sexier than civil procedure whispered during the act of lovemaking. Also, lawyers don’t seem to take it personally when someone argues for the sake of arguing.
Then Alex’s roommate moved out and Brendan moved in. Little Alex with a live-in boyfriend? So cute. We were all hoping there would be a positive effect on Alex’s wardrobe.
There was a positive effect on his entertaining. Alex, because he loves airplanes had to have a place with a view that would allow him to see planes in flight. The apartment in Twin Peaks had a large living room and a big dining room, both of which had great views. From the balcony one could see about 270º including downtown and far enough south that it was easy to spot planes to and from SFO. The apartment should have been shown off!
When Brendan moved in he brought with him his cooking, bar tending, and entertaining skills. Every time I was invited over I knew I’d have a great time. Alex was always social and fun; Brendan had the skills; together they threw a great party, both sit-down and more informal. They complimented each other quite well.
Alex was content in a way he wasn’t when he was single. Brendan was clearly a great guy. When I found out that when Alex’s mother would come visit from Salt Lake City, Brendan would have to pretend the spare room was his own bedroom so Alex could keep up the ruse that he wasn’t gay, I told Alex that he was very lucky that a gay man in San Francisco in the 2000s put up with that, that Brendan must really love him.
Apparently Alex’s mother really wanted grandchildren, which is why she kept asking Alex about girls. Gay people can have kids, but that probably didn’t occur to Alex’s mother, who was born and raised in the Soviet Union. Eventually, the problem was solved by Alex’s older brother, who fathered a child.
I don’t know if Alex came out by saying the words, “I’m gay” to his mother, but eventually it became clear that Alex would not be dating any girls, and that Brendan was not merely a roommate.
Alex said he and Brendan were going to have a commitment ceremony of some sort. Perhaps it was pre-Prop 8 when they originally planned to do so, so they could actually get married. And perhaps some day, after the challenge to Prop 8 is upheld (even if it has to go all the way to the Supreme Court) they can get married if they want to (though of course I’d advise against it). For now, they would have to be happy with being domestic partners.
I received the invitation. It looked gorgeous. Great paper, classy pattern, lovely wording, even a cool address label. I know some of you don’t think that matters, but it does. There was nothing feminine about it, like most wedding invitations. No flowers or doves or any of that bullshit. Just a simple symmetrical band of pattern across the bottom. Embossed, of course. And in brown, which matched the envelope.
The Viking consented to be my date, so I sent back the RSVP and we marked our calendars.
I swear. True story.
[To be continued.]
Katja, oh Katja (Part 2)
Posted on October 05, 2010[Continued from (Katja, oh Katja (Part 1)."]
According to Katja, in Denmark only older ladies who’ve had babies bother to wear bathing suit tops. And she said boys don’t start w
earing anything at all until puberty.
So there we were at beaches with a topless Katja. Sometimes it was fine. We went to nude beaches or semi-private beaches near Santa Rosa, mostly along the Russian River. That was fine.
Actually, it was more than fine. Katja had one of the best bodies I have ever seen in person. I didn’t realize it at the time because I was a young adolescent, but her body was fantastic. As a Dane, she was tall, about 5’6″. She was a teen, so her ass was perky and round.
Her hips were wide, but not too wide. She wore her bikini bottoms straight across her hips, which was not in style in the US at the time. At the time US women were wearing their bikini bottoms high on the hips. I remember asking her why she wore her suit like that, not understanding that the US wasn’t the center of the universe.
Katja’s stomach was flat, as any fit teen’s is. And her breasts were … gorgeous. They were probably C or D cups, on a tall, slender body, and they were perfectly shaped, all teardropped and high and firm.
The Russian River was fine for Katja’s topless activities. I had gone to nude beaches there plenty of times when I was a kid, and even when the beach wasn’t officially designated topless, toplessness wasn’t gawked at too, too much.
But when we went to Whiskeytown (where the Viking and I happened to go to for my family’s reunion this year), Katja’s toplessness wasn’t quite so ok. We made Katja wear what she had, which were wife beater tank tops. The tank tops were what wife beater tank tops are, ribbed and thin and white, and fucking sexy.
There was Katja in her bikini bottom and a tight tank top. She wore no bra, because no one wears a bra at the beach. She did want to swim, or at least get wet, but all she had over her top half was a tank top.
Think of that picture of Fergie with bigger, sans bra tits, a taller body, and a prettier face: that was Katja. Oh, and also a sweet, naive attitude since she was a teenager.
Katja really didn’t understand why my mother (who truthfully liked looking at her tits) or I (who would only years later come to realize how glorious it was to look at her tits) were upset by anything she was doing. We weren’t upset per se, but we were fascinated.
I was fascinated by Katja. I was fascinated that she was so comfortable with her body, that she talked to my mother like she was a peer, that someone could talk to an adult as a peer. Also, I probably had a crush before I knew what the fuck a crush was.
One day when we were at Whiskeytown, Katja wanted to rinse the lake water off of her. Luckily, the day beach provided some outdoor showers just outside the public bathrooms.
Katja, in her tank top and bikini bottom, hopped in the open-air shower. I went into the bathroom to use the facilities.
When I emerged from the bathroom, there was Katja taking a shower. She had an audience – an old, creepy dude with a dog on a leash. He was leering so obviously that when his wife emerged from the ladies’ room she chastised him for looking at Katja’s gorgeous tits.
I was amused, but not as amused I am now. I didn’t realize at the time that the wife was very invested in his wife being into her, not Katja, but I did know that was not ok within their relationship. I did know that Katja was almost completely clueless: she just wanted to rinse off and she didn’t give a shit who was watching.
Years later, my mother had a calico kitty that she named Katja. She also had Katja the kitty declawed, which worked when my mother kept Katja (the cat) inside. Unfortunately, my mother very soon thought that it wasn’t that important that she keep Katja (the cat) indoors. She (Katja the cat) was killed by a neighborhood dog, probably because she couldn’t defend herself properly.
I swear. True story.
