Random Rim Jobs

I’m ready to move.  READY.  I’ve lived in my apartment nearly seven years and in San Francisco for ten.  It is time to move the fuck on.

I look around my apartment and see things I’m tired of seeing.  I look around San Francisco and see things I’ve been seeing for ten years.  I like what I see for the most part, and it will be great to visit a city I know so well, but I’m ready to say I’m from San Francisco rather than I live in San Francisco.

I’m not “from” San Francisco, but that’s what I’ll say when people ask once I’ve moved.  It’s certainly easier to say I’m from San Francisco than that I’m from all over California, that I’ve lived in northern California, southern California, thankfully not central California.

I have senioritis.  You know that feeling, when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel and you want to get there already.  I want to move already.  Change will be very welcome in my life.  This year started off kind of shitty and has gotten better and better and better.  I feel like if I stay here things will only stagnate, and I want them to continue to get better.

The last time I had senioritis so badly I was a senior – in high school.  At the end of my sophomore year my guidance counselor sat down with my father and me and told me there was a chance I could graduate early if I wanted to do so.  Did I!

I had heard about people at my high school graduating a semester early, which is what I hoped for.  However, because my high school had very few requirements for graduation, including only three years of English, and because I had begun taking high school-level classes in junior high, I was told I could graduate a full year before my classmates.

Fuck yeah!  I would have to jump through a few hoops, but I could do it.  I had to get special permission to sign up for classes that were normally only open to seniors.  My guidance counselor took care of that.  And because there were only so many class periods in a day, I had to put in time to get additional units at the continuation high school in my district.

On Wednesday nights my father drove me to the continuation high school.  For those not in the know, a “continuation” high school is for the pregnant girls, the behavior problems, and those with learning disabilities.  It’s a last step before dropping out for most of the students who go.  On Wednesday nights the local continuation high school had supervised study that allowed students to catch up on classwork.

I was to earn a few units on the Wednesday nights, and take a full course of classes during school days, and I could graduate a year early.  I could do that.  The first few Wednesday evenings, the supervising teacher had me read stories and answer comprehension questions.  She always seemed surprised when I finished, and usually let me go before the study period was over because I had completed all my work.

The work was mindless and silly, but I wanted to do whatever it took to graduate early.  After a few Wednesdays of attendance, the supervising teacher didn’t have any work left for me to do; I had done everything that was normally given to students who needed extra units.  The teacher asked me to act as a tutor and help any of the other students who needed it.  Whatever it took, I did.  Finally, the teacher made it clear that I was wasting my time, and set me free, with more units than I had requested or needed for the early graduation.  Thankyouverymuch.

With that cushion of units at my disposal I proceeded to purposefully fail a math class that I didn’t need to graduate and that was more work than I was willing to put in.  The last semester of high school I did the bare minimum of work.

I moved out of my parents’ (father and step-mother) house during my last semester of high school, in March of 1990, when I was 16.  Some time during that final semester my parents got a call indicating I was “in danger of not graduating.”  I heard through DJ that my parents got the call, as I had no interest in talking to them during that time.

I didn’t give a shit that I was in danger of not graduating, because even if I didn’t graduate then, a year early, I could take summer school, or attend another semester, and I still would have graduated early.  The teachers looked at me with a wise pity, like they had seen it all before – the formerly good student who was just done.

I still don’t know what my final grades were, but I did graduate from high school a year early.  Literally the day after I graduated I moved from the small suburban Sacramento town to the San Gabriel Valley in southern California.  DJ helped me with that.

I can’t say this bout of senioritis is as difficult at the one when I was 16 since I now have a bit more maturity.  Just a bit.

I swear.  True story.

I’ve let trickle out the fact that I’m moving. That little tidbit has apparently caused and/or allowed guys to contact me out of the blue looking for action.  Also, some regular and semi-regular fucks have let me know that they want to have a last hurrah with me before I go.

This is all very flattering, to be sure, but I’m not in the mood to deal with a bunch of guys, many of whom there is a reason I’ve never met nor not seen in a while.  One guy I’ve put in my phone as Charles Asshole.  He texted me recently asking what I was doing that night.  My response was “not spending it with you.”

I’m not always so mean, but that guy, Charles Asshole, knew how I felt; it was offensive that he even contacted me.  We had had a relationship of sorts.  Well, we’d had relations.  We met via a Craig’s List ad wherein he was supposed to come over to fool around with me and a guy.  He ended up ignoring the guy, flirting with a lady guest, and getting a blow job from me.

I suppose our relations began with him “mistreating” me; the night we met I rather liked that in front of my friends he flirted with the lady guest, and when no one was around we sneaked into my downstairs bathroom, where I sucked his cock.  Thereafter, he’d come over, we’d fuck, and he’d leave.

Which was fine until it wasn’t.  At first I liked that he was cute and that he’d reach up and choke me when we fucked.  Then that wasn’t enough.  It’s not like we had a deep relationship, but at some point even the superficial goings on weren’t worth it.  I finally told him via text message that having never come with him wasn’t worth it.

I had a “new” guy contact me.  He had written a guest post for this very blog.  It was sexy, for sure, but that alone wouldn’t make me fuck him.  It was nice of him to contact me, and to throw me an offer, but I’m not “there” right now.

I’m not “there” mostly because of the Viking.  It continues to amaze me that he will do anything to make me happy.  Well, not anything; it’s not like I’ve asked him to kill for me ….

I’ve had guys I’ve fucked before tell me they want to do so again before I move to Chicago.  Very flattering, but I don’t have time.  Rather, I’ve not made the time in every case.  Jules Verne and I have had three “last” fucks.  We seem to really dig each other.  The last time we got together he told me he thought I was crazy, but that I was the “cool” kind of crazy; he liked hanging out with me.  He’s moved to Manhattan; I’m moving to Chicago.  Perhaps we’ll see each other again.

I’ve had a guy I fucked only twice tell me he wants to do me again before I go.  He’s the one who has issues between his wife (to whom he is not “out”) and Grindr that don’t allow us to fuck more often.  He’s also fucking my friend (who referred me to him), and she says she rarely gets to see him either.

A guy I fucked only once and whom I’ve barely contacted since asked, “Can I. come. over and service you?”  I didn’t bother to respond.

Another guy I’ve dubbed the Altar Boy keeps wanting to get together.  He was my first admitted frat boy (Jules Verne was the most recent), but he still had a bit of charm.  He also fisted me sans lube when I was bent over the back of my couch, the image of which is still in my spank bank.  But I just don’t have time.

Also during this time I’ve had a guy who I thought was a regular tell me that he’s “taking a break.”  I get it.  He’s married with teens, but he certainly seemed to be into not only me, but also being in an open marriage.  His wife was very into being “open” so I’m not sure if it was his decision or theirs.  What I do know is that after telling me he was taking a break he didn’t bother responding to me otherwise.

A guy I used to fuck semi-regularly asked if I wanted to go to the Hot Tubs with him.

They’re all over the fucking place.

At this point I just want to fuck and/or hang out with the guys I really, really, really like.  And then I want to move to Chicago, where it will take me some time to make friends and even longer to make friends with benefits.

While I’m not monogamous, I am a homebody who finds it comfortable and nice at home if my home is a happy one.  I still like the thrill of sucking a cock in a random bathroom, but I don’t have to have that.

At least for now.

I swear.  True story.

[I found this undated tidbit amongst some papers. It is undated but I believe it's from the time the Ex and his stupid (literally; I'm not just being petulant) girlfriend lived with me. I am, thankfully, not in this place any longer. I'm so happy now, due in no small amount to the Viking.]

I hate you for fucking me.

I hate that you’re not repulsed by me.  I hate that you think I’m sexy.  I hate you.  I hate that you find me interesting.  I hate that you like me.  I hate that you’re willing to fuck me.  I hate you.  I hate that you feel helpless.  I hate that you are so fucking stupid.  I hate that you have no ambition.  I hate that you’re so disgusting.

I hate you for trying to cheer me up.  I hate your voice.  I hate you.  I hate that you’re nice to me.  I hate that you find me charming.  I hate that you don’t call anymore.  I hate that you don’t give me a reason.  I hate.

I hate that you look like your mother.  I hate that you can’t be responsible.

I hate that this is life.  I hate that I can’t blame this on hormones.

I hate myself.

12:21 AM

I could have gone to Nicole’s but no, I wanted to be with Henry.  I just sat here trying to get close but he was frying and couldn’t stay still or concentrate enough to kiss.  We did kiss but I had to do it and he wasn’t into it at all.  Oh well, that was the acid, not him.  Damn Maury was there and gave me a ride home.  He’s such a fucking druggie.  He’s lost any sense of self-respect and will ask anyone for money.  So I gave him about two bucks.  Damn, anything to shut up his damn whining.  He’s so pathetic – like a stray animal you don’t want to take in but just stay the fuck away because it looks so terrible that it wold make you sick to see it too much.  I want Henry to call me.  He was so goofy nervous like figetey (Is that a damn word?) I could have also gone out with Laura, Deanna and Andy with Vidal.  They were only getting drunk though.  Maybe this is for the best, I do have to work tomorrow.  Why do I always mispell Houston?  [That is a true transcription of me misspelling "misspell" and spelling "Houston" correctly.]  Why does Laura always were tight, low-cut shirts?  And they’re also short – at the waist or usually above.  Boys are dumb.  Why do I like Henry?

7:08 AM

I was pleasant at 6 AM.  I’m so proud of myself.  Henry loves me.  I still want to kiss him for hours and hours.  Is that so wrong?  Does that make me a bad person?  Henry was telling me about how everything looked to him and he remembered he couldn’t stay still long enough to kiss (but of course he didn’t say so) me.  But god, I could kiss him for hours.  I’d like to press my body up against his and feel his heat.  But then does he even want to kiss me?  I mean he never makes the move.  But then there have only been two times thus far.  His hands are so small – his middle fingers are longer than mine but otherwise they’re the same size.  How sweet.  That’s very tiny.  But what he can do with a guitar, he could probably do to me.  His hands are soft and he holds so nicely.  Or perhaps he’s just human and I I think he’s more ’cause it’s been so long since I’ve touched anyone.  But he feels so different.  Fuck, I hate it when I start to write something and I’ve forgotten what my point was so I end up gibbering.  Can’t win ‘em all.  I saw his belly last night – he was laying on his side and his shirt rode up so that I, position below him, could see his belly.  It was kind of cute that I got to see.  Call me cray or loony or both.  I think things are going rather well.  I’m learning about myself (I am very impatient and rush head – or maybe it’s body – first into things usually.) and him. (He likes to test the waters several times and then still doesn’t get all the way in – I don’t think he’s even ankle-deep so far.)  This whole experience is going to be a great book (a la Bosom Buddies).  I wonder when Thrifty’s opens ’cause I have cash and I want to get a damn phone cord.  I’m just tired of not being able to go anywhere ’cause I’m on the damn phone.  Probably doesn’t open ’til 11 or so ’cause it’s Sunday and all.  I’m gonna get yelled at today ’cause I didn’t count down the cash drawer but signed it out anyway and also didn’t alarm anyone that my drawer was off over five dollars.  Oh well, I don’t care anymore.  Real job dedication (not).  Now I’m getting tired and I only have about an hour or so ’til I really have to be up.

10:58 PM

Why do I even bother having any days off?  I don’t do anything I have no life.  Shit.  And Henry’s not even home.  He should be waiting by the phone for me.  And I have to go to the bathroom but I’m out of toilet paper – again.  I could go buy some but I’m afraid Henry’ll call when I’m gone.  Fuck.  This isn’t fair.  Why do I have to wait around for him?  Why is he so fucking unpredictable?  Shit – he could be asleep, but I doubt it.  Well, he did stay up all night on acid but shit fuck I don’t know.  Why do I have to like him so much?  I just want him to touch me – I don’t think that’s too much.  I guess I should go to bed early on a Sunday night ’cause I don’t have to work tomorrow.  I wish I could find my remote control.  Maybe I should clean my sty.  Maybe I should tell Henry that I can’t deal with his shit.  Maybe if I had a car I could go over to his house when I felt like it.  He makes such a big production out of coming over here.  I guess that’s sweet and all.  Gosh this is depressing.  Laura went home to meet Vidal and get lucky.  No fair – she has a willing partner.  Could I cry.  I don’t like being alone so why am I always?  It’s just not fair.  But everyone else says that too so I know there are others like me.  Misery loves miserable company.  (Beth’s coinage.)  I’m so bored I don’t want to eat anything I have.  I can hear everything my neighbors are doing.  I don’t think they’re very loud during sex cause I would’ve heard them by now.  I guess I’ll take a shower and go to bed.  God, I have absolutely do damn life.  I want a car.  I want to see Henry.  I want to feel his warmth.  Is that too much to ask?  Apparently so.  Will I always be depressed?  I guess so.  Maybe I’ll clean my house tomorrow.  Shit, what  mess I could make if I had a place with more than one room.  This mess is actually kind of scary.  But I usually have the biggest problem with the kitchen and it’s not that messy.  I want to vacuum.  Yes it’s true.  After all the complaining about the Mad Vacuumer.

When I put the other journal of course I had to read some of my other stuff.  Erica shit – I was bad – had it bad.  Why do I do it to myself?  I was fine before I read that.  But it’s nice to know I won’t make the same mistakes again and it’s nice to

Just tried to call Shannon but she’s not home and Mary didn’t recognise my voice and thought I said Anne when I said my name.  Holy fuck.  Damn.  I need to know how I’m getting to NorCal.

know that the mind does block the actual painful feelings if not the memory of the event.  Fuck, now I’m depressed.  Everything is so different with Henry.  So much less painful.  This is actually nice.

I feel like calling Laura just to interrupt her and Vidal but that would be mean.  It would be a funny joke.  God I wish I could make myself stop thinking about some things.  I’ll just replace old thoughts with new.  Better.

12:26 AM

Haven’t talked to Henry all day.  Well, yesterday either after around 6:30P.M.  Anyway, he didn’t call early this afternoon when I was still at home and I got home around 11:15P.M.  I got the Message Center.  Cool – I got two messages today – one from my mom and a nasty poem from Laura – I saved that one.  It tells me the date and time that the person called and I can save or erase.  Pretty cool huh?  I’ve started to peel.  Boy am I mad.  I’m still gonna wear my tent/tank dress so I guess Henry’ll just have to see pieces of my skin rolling off.  Actually, I’m hoping it’ll be all done by Monday night.  I hope.  I was gonna call Henry but I didn’t want him to think that I think about him all the time even if I do.  I was just thinking how totally different things would be if we were having sex – so maybe this is best.  But I still want him.  Laura wants me to go to 70′s on Sunday night.  I don’t know ’cause of my financial situation.  But I should be getting my “retro” check for my raise.  I don’t know how much it’ll be.  And I feel I should have some cash with me on Monday night – just because.  I got [Step-Sister]‘s graduation announcement today.  It’s in less than a month.  Time sure does go by quite quickly.  I graduated almost a year ago.  Wow.  And my birthday’s coming up.  I wish I could forget last year’s.  Oh well, the past is in the past.  I will make this year’s better.  Everyone at work is so clean – they were shocked that I drink now.  Yeah, woopie.  Guess what?  My damn phone is not ringing and I don’t think it’s going to.  Shit.  Oh well.  Boys are dumb.  But they’re so cute!  Why does it always seem like things go so slow while you’re doing them?

This is a car.  This is a car on meth.  There is no fucking way other than speed that anyone would have the time, energy, and meticulous attention to detail that created the “decorations” on this car.  There are shells, both sea- and ammunition.  There are skulls – animal, “human,” real, and fake.  Dolls and doll parts have been utilized in unspeakable (and unwritable) ways.

This car was difficult not to notice, and it definitely runs because I only saw it on the Mission/Bernal Heights border that one day.

San Francisco has its share of stupid-looking cars.  For the most part I don’t take photos of the vehicles because I don’t want to chance the cars’ owners seeing me take ‘em.  I don’t want the “artists” to think that I’m either 1) appreciating their “artistry,” or 2) – which is much more likely – making fun of their stupidity.  The artisan of this fine rolling behemoth of modern art was nowhere around when I snapped these rather mediocre photos.  I’m glad, because I certainly would not want to have to engage in conversation with anyone who would do this to a car.

Conversation would involve me asking how long it took and asking about various details, all whilst trying to keep a straight face.  I would have needed to get away quickly so as not to laugh.  Because someone who would do this to a car may not understand why his hard work wasn’t truly appreciated.

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.