Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 3)."]

After the incident with the neighbor I felt very uncomfortable in and around the apartment building; I did not want to run into the guy who was clearly “interested” in me in a very intimate way.  Israel told me he’d talk to the neighbor.

A few days later when I came home from work Israel told me he had talked to the neighbor.  He told me he had smoked a joint with the neighbor.  Uh, my boyfriend thought it was ok to smoke a joint this guy who said he wanted to “get with me”?  Let me remind my dear readers that I was 19.  I had certain ideas about how a boyfriend should be.  And I still have the idea that a guy who claims to be my boyfriend should have understood that if I’m upset at someone the best thing to do is not to smoke a joint with that someone, but rather to defend my honor.

Well, over that joint Israel got to the bottom of why the neighbor held out his wallet to me and said he’d pay to get with me.  Apparently, my evasiveness regarding where I worked at night, by saying I worked “down the street,” had sounded to the neighbor like, “I work on the street.”  He thought I was a streetwalker.  And my boyfriend thought that it was funny.

That was probably the turning point in our relationship.

He traveled to visit an ex-girlfriend and despite repeated assurances that he would not have sex with her, he did.  I cheated on him with a regular Q’s customer.  When we were alone we drank a lot.  I still couldn’t buy alcohol, but Israel could.  He bought me Irish cream – of various brands – which I drank over ice.

But we didn’t spend much time alone together since we were both working a lot and I went to school as well.  On Superbowl Sunday both Israel and I worked waiting shifts.  As I’ve mentioned, I was not a good waitress.  It stressed me out to no end.  On Superbowl Sunday Q’s was packed with people watching the game, drinking, and eating.

For the Superbowl there were food specials.  Only exactly what the food specials were was not communicated to us, the waitstaff.  The management and the kitchen staff had different ideas of the specials.  Those of us who were trying to earn tips didn’t know what the fuck to tell the customers.  After being told one thing by my boss and another by the cook, I was pissed.  My boss caught me just outside the kitchen.

I was mad, he was my boss.  There were words, of the loud and disrespectful nature.  He fired me.  On Superbowl Sunday.  I was actually relieved.  I was doing a shitty job waiting and probably wouldn’t have been tipped all that well anyway.  I handed my open tickets over to another waiter and walked home.

For the next few days I went to school and worried about my next job.  Unbeknown to me, Israel was working on his boss – my former boss.  He asked him to hire me back – because he was tired of having me around our apartment all the time.  Nice.  I went back to work, but no longer took any waiting shifts.

Israel announced one day that he had been to the local sex shop.  Back then the local sex shop was nothing like my local sex shop, Good Vibrations.  Back then the sex shops were dirty and sleazy and of the sort many people would only enter on a lark on drunk.  He showed me his purchases, some skin magazines of the extremely large-breasted variety, and a strap-on harness with a dildo.

I wasn’t even sure what the harness contraption was.  He told me he wanted me to put it on and to fuck his ass.  I was a naive flower at the time.  I’m pretty sure I wasn’t so naive as to think that him wanting something in his ass made him gay, however, I’m definitely didn’t fully comprehend dominance and submission/top and bottom dynamics.  I had already participated in some BDSM activities up to that point (though not with Israel), but I didn’t get much other than I liked being teased a lot.

Well, I tried.  I put the harness on.  I had a cock.  For about two minutes.  I tried, I really did.  I felt fucking ridiculous.  And silly.  I laughed more than anything and I didn’t even get close to fucking him.  Which may have been for the best as I don’t recall him having brought home lube from the porn store.

The strap-on purchase was a last-ditch effort to make our relationship work.  Another gesture that I considered downright ridiculous and silly was him asking me to marry him.  I was all of twenty.  He wasn’t much older.  No matter what, no matter how young and naive I was, I knew that a relationship of six months in which we’d both cheated on each other was most definitely not a solid foundation for a marriage.

He seemed to think differently because he married the girlfriend after me.  I never met her, but he and I continued to be friendly so I learned that she was older than him.  I figured that by age alone she was more ready to be married.  Many years later I know that there is a shit ton more to being married than “maturity.”

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Prague, Israel (Part 2)."]

Israel and I both worked and lived together.  Israel and I both worked days, and I also had some shifts at night.  I was a shitty waitress and I knew it.  I didn’t like having to be really nice in hopes of a tip with only minimum wage guaranteed when I made more than minimum wage when I worked at night as a hostess.  The good waiting shifts were taken by people who were actually good at waiting on people.

Around the same time I began going to school in earnest.  Junior college.  Pasadena City College.  I had graduated from high school a year early, but then had taken a bit of time to realize that I did want to go to college.  That I mostly worked nights was convenient not only because I made more money at night, but also because I could attend classes during the days.

School during the day and working both days and nights meant I did a lot of coming and going from my apartment, sometimes at “odd” hours.  For the most part this didn’t bother or have any effect at all on my neighbors.  One neighbor, however, noticed.  We’d often run into each other in the lobby of the building, or in the back yard where he smoked and I took my puppy, or in the front yard.  When he saw me in the front yard it was usually because I was on my way to my car to go to school.

Because I was on my way to school I was usually in a hurry.  The neighbor was not in a hurry at all; he didn’t seem to do much more than hang out in or near our apartment building.  So he walked me to my car on a number of occasions, and attempted to engage me in conversation.  I had been working at a bar for a while and had begun to see the lame signs that I guy was “interested” in me.  Lame because the guys would pretend to care about what I did with my time when they really wanted to know, “You wanna fuck me?”

My neighbor was interested in me for sure, and pretended to care about my comings and goings.  He asked me where I was going in my car.  “To school.”  He asked me where I go at night.  “To work.”  He asked me where I worked.  I did not want him to come to the bar where I worked to talk to me.  There, I had to be nice to the customers and I was trapped at my hostessing station.  So, I told him I worked down the street.  It wasn’t a lie, and he had seen me come and go to work by foot, so I figured that would be enough for him.

And it was, sort of.  The neighbor continued to be overly solicitous whenever he saw me.  One day he knocked on my apartment door and held out, like a proud child, a rather scraggly looking potted plant.  I thanked him, but I really don’t think I was particularly encouraging.  I still have the plant.

I tried my best to keep our interactions short but sometimes when I was out with my puppy I had to talk to him until she was done doing her thing.  It was dark one evening when he found me in the building’s front yard with my puppy.  It must have been a rare night that I had off from work, and I was not in the mood to deal with him, but my puppy was taking her time.  I wanted to go.

Finally, I began walking up the building’s stairs to my apartment when the neighbor yelled after me, “I wanna get with you.”  I certainly would find that refreshing now, but 19-year-old me was freaked the fuck out.  It didn’t help that I found the man repulsive.  Then, as I was retreating further up the stairs, he held up his wallet and said, “I’ll pay!”

I picked up the puppy and ran to my apartment, where Israel was home.  He could see that I was upset when I told him what had just happened to me.  He thought it was funny.  I did not.

I swear.  True story

[To be continued ….]

[Continued from "OkStupid, Part 1."]

I had another OkCupid date scheduled.  The guy told me that he was going on a long trip so I’d better get to him beforehand.  Ok, whatever.  The day of the date we confirmed the location, Herbivore on Valencia, and the time, 7pm.  It’s always nice when the date is confirmed in writing.  And because we had confirmed in writing, when I dreaded leaving the house that evening, the shame of flaking forced me to go.

I stood in front of the restaurant for a bit.  I walked into the restaurant and asked if there was anyone there alone.  No.  I went back outside and waited.  And waited.  Finally, at 7:27 I began walking home.  I was very glad I’d not bothered to get dressed up or makeuped.  When I was a few blocks from my house I received a text from a number that wasn’t programmed into my phone.  I figured out pretty quickly who it was, since the text indicated the sender was three minutes away and then had to find parking.

Yeah, I’m the stupid one.  I walked back to the restaurant.  See why I make them come to me?  I sent a text saying that we had agreed to meet at 7pm.  He apologized via text and then called to explain that he really and truly did think our date was at 7:30.  We had confirmed earlier that day.  For 7pm.  He said to make up for it he’d buy me dinner.  I assured him that he was already going to buy me dinner.

He scoffed a bit, but I made it clear that he was most definitely buying.  We sat down.  We ordered.   We talked.  I said my usual charming things.  My dinner was tasty – grilled veggies and fake chicken over quinoa.  He ate oddly – with his hands but didn’t use a napkin.

He asked if I wanted to play a game wherein if I won he’d owe me double of whatever it was that he owed me, and if he won he’d buy me dinner and nothing else.  Fine.  He’d ask me five questions and I had to answer each of them falsely.  The first three questions were easy to answer incorrectly, but then he got lost and asked me if the last question was the third or the fourth.  I completely fell for it and told him that that was the third question, meaning I answered that question correctly, thereby losing the little bet.

He claimed that that indicated that I was helpful and trusting of others.  I told him that I didn’t like the game, but if he wanted to get out of making up for being over a half an hour late by tricking me then that was his prerogative.

The bill came and he – I so wish I was kidding – said, “I forgot my wallet.”  I told him to empty his pockets.  He was sure it was in his car, or at home in San Rafael. I had my wallet.  I paid.  I paid money I don’t have.  I paid for a meal, that while tasty, was not worth my $50.  It certainly was worth his $50 though.

He asked if I’d go back to San Rafael with him so he could pay me back.  When I asked how I’d get home he promised to drive me home – in the morning.  I told him I had a dog to care for; he offered to bring her along.  I declined.

He promised over and over that he did not do it on purpose.  He also promised to mail me a check.  Yeah, right.  I gave him my PO Box address.  I don’t think I’ll ever see a check and I told him as much. He promised again.  He said he was telling the truth and that his was an honest face from which only truth emerged.  Whatever.

He then pulled a couple off the street.  He wanted to ask them if he looked honest.  Jesus Christ, guy, get over it.  I told them to run away while they could.  I told him not to get them involved.  But they got involved.  He told them the story; that he forgot his wallet.  The guy said that they were in a similar situation because he didn’t know the restaurant they went to was cash only so she had to pay.

I looked at her.  Yeah, I could tell.  I said, “You two have already fucked though, right?”  She blushed.  Yeah, they had.  “And he’s got a big dick, doesn’t he?”  She wanted to get the fuck out of there.  “I told you you didn’t want to get involved,” I yelled.

My date told me he had a big dick.  I suggested he take a picture of it and include it with the check to cover dinner.  He never asked how much dinner was.

My date walked toward his car.  I walked the opposite way only so I didn’t have to walk with him.

I’ve not yet checked my PO Box.  I don’t hold out much hope.  I’m the stupid one.

I swear.  True story.

One of the great things about being my age is that I know myself pretty well. Also, I know that some things many think are important really are not.  Like putting up with people who don’t contribute positively to my life.  Because I know now what that means.

It means if someone hurts me more than s/he helps me s/he’s probably not worth my time or my energy.  No, I do not keep scorecards on my friends, but I do know that it’s not worth the heartache and turmoil to be around people who make me feel like shit – about myself or them.  I will never seriously say, “My douche bag boyfriend …” because I will not have someone I call a friend – boy- or otherwise – treat me in such a way that I want to call him a douche bag.

Not so Tammy, a very cute, very sweet, very naive, and very young lady I recently met.  Ruby asked me to join her for some drinks at Latin American Club.  She was there with a friend who had clearly started drinking much earlier, though she was not drinking the Latin American Club’s infamous margaritas.  And neither was I, since I didn’t even know about their infamous margaritas.  The next time I go I will definitely get a margarita or two.

Ruby’s friend suggested I meet a guy with whom she’d hook me up.  Ok, what’s his number?  She said I could only have his number if I was “ready to settle down.”  Uh, no, I am most definitely not ready to settle down, I’d like to fuck, please.  She said she couldn’t let him get his heart broken like that so I’d not get his number.  I told her that just because someone doesn’t want to settle down does not mean that hearts will be broken so long as everyone is honest with each other.

She was not listening.  She had had quite a bit to drink.  And she had gone on to how great her boyfriend was.  Yes, I agreed when she showed me a photo on her phone, he was very cute.  Yes, they did make a nice couple.  Frankly, I didn’t give a fuck about her boyfriend, and talking about how great his cock was was getting a little old.

Then we all met Tammy.  Tammy was at Latin American Club while her boyfriend was across the street at at a class at the Mission Campus of San Francisco City College.  Tammy was waiting for him because he asked her to do so.  At one point Tammy left, and we assumed she and the boyfriend had met up and made their way home.

However, Tammy returned.  She told us that her “douche bag boyfriend,” though he had asked her to wait for him, “forgot” that she was waiting and left without her.  Wow, what consideration.  Tammy told us more.  She had recently turned 21.  She and the boyfriend had been together for three years.  She had moved directly from her parents’ home in with him.  She was trying to move out on her own.

Oh, Tammy.  Of course I went into I’ve-been-through-it-and-trust-me-you’ll-look-back-and-realize-it-wasn’t-worth-it mode.  She claimed she was trying to get free of the boyfriend and wanted to be more independent.  I told her that she didn’t deserve to be disregarded by someone who claimed to love her.  I said a bunch of other stuff too, and Tammy claimed to understand, but I don’t hold out much hope for Tammy.

I left soon thereafter, as I preferred to spend my time with someone I’ve no interest in calling a douche bag rather than waste my breath on a sad girl who may or may not eventually learn that she doesn’t have to be miserable.

I swear.  True story.

I’m sunbathing – hanging my legs out the front door. I don’t think there is a time when my neighbors aren’t noisy. Oh well. They got up early (I do mean early – before 10am) today and made lots of noise. It feels very nice to sit in the sun thought I should have sunscreen on my face.

Last night – the “Band” played at a party out in the middle of nowhere – it looked like a cross between Yosemite and Palo Cedro. The band before them played a long time so for a while we were all just standing around. Getting stoned whatever. But Henry would always stand by me – quite close I might add. We had to stand around a lot. We were “backstage” (behind a couple of tarps strung up)

I think I have skin cancer on my leg and I just found another spot not as big on my hip.

and Henry was standing close to me. He had told me earlier in the evening that he was tired cause he smoked too much pot and also did some coke. He showed me he was shaking and had me FEEL HIS HEART. At first I put my hand tentatively then he held it closer and tighter with his hand. Lordy. He has pecks and everything. And he has hair on his chest. But it’s not gross, it looks kind of nice – ok. He has a cute little cleft-type thing in his lower lip.

I have to go to the bathroom but I’m out of toilet paper. Maybe I should go buy some.

Anyway. When they went on, Beth, Carla, and myself sat in what would’ve been the wings. And right before he had to play, Henry asked me if I wanted to hold his jacket. How chivilrous (shit, I can’t spell). He looks so sexy when he plays. His face gets this look like he really doesn’t care but his hands are touching that instrument like it’s a woman. (Or at least how I’d hope he’d touch a woman.) He leans forward at the hips and the strobe light was on so he looked like he was moving a lot ore than he actually was

I am extremely sick … still. I’m sure the stress of dealing with the stupid pettiness of the Ex isn’t helping.

This is what the Ex’s stupid cunt of a girlfriend did to me.  Nice, huh?  The yucky face is just because I’ve been sick for over a week.  And now because the Ex is a shithead my mattress isn’t on my bed, which is from where he originally took it, but in my garage.  So that’s something fun I get to do tonight before I go to sleep.

But first to Bawdy Storytelling.  I’m a unicorn, dammit, and I need to pick the lucky person who gets to go on a date with me.  The date will take place after I’m no longer bruised or sick.  It’s only fair I give my date a good time since s/he/they will have paid good money for me.

I swear.  True (lame) story.

As I wrote yesterday’s post the Ex’s girlfriend was going on about her pregnancy, about how she may not be able to work with certain chemicals at work (a major oil company in the East Bay) so she doesn’t put her precious cargo in danger. I informed her that one of the things she most definitely should not do whilst pregnant is cocaine.

Because not less than two weeks ago she did just that. No, I did not see her do it, but she and the Ex got home around 8am and then stayed in bed until around 4pm, and then he later admitted what they did.

Then I said something that angered the Ex and his girlfriend and she proceeded to talk about me as if I weren’t in the room – from about ten feet away. I called her passive-aggressive and told her to just fucking talk to me already.

She claimed I was passive-aggressive, a hilarious notion, and I told her she tricked her boyfriend into getting her pregnant.

Apparently that hit a nerve. She got up off the couch and came at me. I remember thinking that it was funny that she was so mad because either it’s true and she just has to admit it to herself, or it’s false and it doesn’t matter what the opinion of the ex-wife of the baby’s daddy is. And I also remember thinking that she’d get to me – sitting in my desk chair, not being threatening in any way – with her fist banished and say something like, “You make me want to hit you.”

Instead, she actually hit me. I don’t remember where or how, but she did. She definitely grabbed and scratched my left arm.  Then the Ex pulled me away.  I kept yelling, “She came at me.”  He eventually got me down on my back on the floor (well, on Isis’ bed), but not before I attempted to kick him in the balls twice and actually tore his t-shirt off him.

She went upstairs from whence she threw down a full-length, leather-handled umbrella, and continued screaming how angry she was.  She yelled that he came inside her – a nausea-inducing notion.  She yelled that not every child is planned and asked rhetorically how I came into the world.  (Much the same way as her shitty kid – my mother planned for me, my father did not.)  She screamed that no one has anything nice to say about me.  She had the nerve to say that Jesús didn’t like me before he died.  She never fucking met Jesús.

I tried to call 911 but the Ex unplugged the phone.  I still can’t find one of the phones.

The whole time she was screaming like a banshee I was calmly leaning against the wall, under the loft bedroom so I wouldn’t get hit with any projectiles.  Then the Ex went on about how his mother told him I would take advantage of his kindness.  This is the same mother who – while we were together and getting along fine – called me a white whore, so I’m not sure that her opinion of me was ever good.  I guess now she can gloat.

I told them to get out.  He told me to do so.  I told him I didn’t trust them in my house with my animals and my stuff.  Really, I wouldn’t put it past the girlfriend to hurt the animals or take a knife to my furniture. Poor Isis was so scared.  I sat on the couch and tried to comfort her.  The Ex and the girlfriend were upstairs where she was telling her tale to her sister on the phone.  The tale included something along the lines of it being a good thing the Ex intervened because I’m so much bigger than she is.  Yeah, my tits are bigger than her little, creepy areolae pads.

While she talked to her sister I talked on the phone to my friend in the downstairs bathroom.  I really was afraid to leave the animals.  As I talked to my friend my left arm really began to hurt.  I took off my shirt and the entire triceps was bruised and scratched, though not enough to draw blood.  My friend told me to get out of there and have my neighbor take pictures.

I went to my neighbor’s place where she took pictures of me looking rather dismal.  Then I talked to her and her husband and they suggested I call the police.  The police – four officers in all – showed up rather quickly and said the usual – that I could press charges, that she could also press charges, that I could get a restraining order, etc.

The officers then went to talk to them, and returned to tell me that they had a friend picking them up, and that they were advised that any damage to my property would be a felony.  I finished watching a movie with my neighbors and then went home.

The Viking (a nickname he both knows about and has approved) came over and spent the night.  He was very sweet to be here at a time when I didn’t want to be alone and when I really wasn’t sure of my safety.

I swear.  True story.

Literally sick and actually really tired.  I’ve had a bad cough that I thought had improved so many times, but then keeps rearing its ugly head.  And my back hurts.

Hopefully a nap will improve my mood.  I guess I’ll down some more cough syrup and hope that I don’t get anyone else sick.

I’ve been looking forward to a French-themed dinner party tonight and I’m going to go, dammit!

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.

I didn’t know he was Meth Boy right away. Maybe because I’m naive or ignorant or lame, but what I thought at first was that he was an adult child.

He was a spazzy guy who couldn’t stop moving. He always had a skateboard with him.  We met in a bar.  I knew right away I wanted to fuck him but he was with friends.  So we exchanged numbers and parted ways.

Then on Halloween 2009 we got together.  I hate wearing costumes but there he was in a fairly detailed devil mask.  We had a couple of drinks.  He talked about how much he wanted to fuck me.  Great, let’s fuck.

We went to Kinky Salon.  It being Halloween it was packed, but we found a place to lounge in the back room.  There were people sexing it up all around us.  I took off my shirt and then my bra.  I kept on my skirt, but I wasn’t wearing any panties.  We kissed.  He had a nice mouth.  He took off his shirt.  He pulled out his dick.

There it sat, a sad limp thing.  He pulled on it.  A lot.  Nothing happened, though it did appear to be quite flexible.  He told me that he had too much speed.  Yeah, any amount of anything that prevents erections is too much.

We were taking up valuable real estate in the back room of a sex club just chit-chatting since there wasn’t a dick that was useful.  Of course there are other things, but I didn’t have any with me, and I didn’t trust his hands to go near my pussy.  He was sweating a lot and those hands were all over the place, running through his hair, pulling on his clothes, and generally picking up the kind of bacteria that throws the properly balanced pussy environment out of whack.

We left the sex club and went to the Tenderloin so he could get some food.  We finally parted ways well after 3am.

The next day I was planning on going to the California Academy of Sciences as it was free for people in my zip code.  He texted me, claiming he was fully capable of getting his dick hard.  That was nice, but I had plans that did not involve his dick.  He went with me to the museum.

We had a nice time, after which we walked to the Park Chalet where we had a couple of drinks.  It was a nice day so it was packed.  We ended up sitting in the wooded area beyond the Park Chalet’s grassy area.  He told me where he was the night before, after we parted ways:  In a porn booth pulling his pud.

We took the bus back to my house.  My roommates were gone for the evening so we had the place to ourselves.  First was a shower for him.  He had been sweating continuously since the night before and he did not smell nice at all.  Smell is very important to me.

Once out of the shower he smelled good and looked cute and clean.  His dick found its way into my mouth.  But it still wasn’t hard.  We hung out some more.  Then I sucked on his dick some more while we were on the couch.  His cock was starting to get hard.  Yes, finally.

And then my roommates came home.  The roommates grabbed the dog and walked her around the block while we dressed.  So that was that.

I told my friend Ramona about him.  She asked if he seemed surprised that he couldn’t get it up.  No, actually, it seemed par for the course.  She said that’s because that kind of guy can never get it up.  He never had a hard dick.  Ever.  I didn’t want to believe it.  I gave him two more chances.

We saw each other again about a month later.  He came over and crawled in bed with me.  It felt nice but he didn’t even try to fuck me.  I’m pretty sure that’s because his dick wouldn’t get hard.  Then he asked to take a shower.  He had arrived early in the morning and should have showered beforehand.  I was irritated.  Then something came up so I didn’t have the whole day to spend with him, for which I was grateful.

Our final meeting involved drinks and dinner.  But I could tell right away that he was again spazzy.  He couldn’t hold still.  And over a rather tasty dinner it became clear that chances were very high that he would once again not be able to get it up.  I told him I liked him a lot, that his mouth really was lovely, but that I couldn’t handle hanging out with someone who was so much of a mess.  I left him in the restaurant.

He was not my first meth boy, however.  The “adventure” reminded me that a while back I’d been up and horny well into the night.  I resorted to Craig’s List.  I did not think that the most of the other people up at that time were not night people like me but high.  The guy who showed up was very young.  He arrived on his bicycle.  Not a bicycle that most people use for getting around town, but a BMX-style bike for doing tricks and such.  What is it with guys who do meth and their childish modes of transportation?  Anyway, he was most definitely able to get it up.  He had very soft skin, but when he offered to go get me some meth I declined.

I swear.  True story.