Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Food Fail (Part 1)."]

We walked to St. Francis Fountain through more of the Street Food Festival crowd.  It was a warm Saturday with a street festival going on; the sidewalks were full.  Once in front of St. Francis Fountain it was obvious we wouldn’t be able to eat any time soon; there was a crowd of hipsters waiting out front.

When confronted by a bunch of people who are clearly cooler than I – or at least think they are – I get nervous.  I don’t have enough tattoos and I look horrible in skinny jeans so the hipsters intimidate me.  I’ve been rejected by enough hipsters to know that I’m definitely not hip enough to be in their company.

I should have known.  I first went to St. Francis Fountain with Ramona, who is most definitely cooler than I even wish I were.  She’s heavily tattooed and wears a lot of short skirts with fishnets and has dyed black hair.  I’m convinced that if we didn’t happen to like fucking the same guys (she’s referred several to me) that she would have trouble being my friend.  I’m just not fashionable enough for her.  She’s probably mostly embarrassed to be seen with me in public.

The Viking and I saw that there was a grip of hipsters in front of St. Francis Fountain waiting to eat.  Dammit.  By this time we were hungry and I was in no mood to feel inferior in my regular clothes with only a couple of tattoos showing.  I remember when the fact that I had tattoos at all was edgy ….

Finally, we decided to stop by our corner grocery for supplies so the Viking could make us food.  He made eggs with chipotles and other yummy stuff, and quesadillas using thick “homemade” corn tortillas.  Yum.

[To be continued ….]

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.

Hey asshole, you are not better than me.  You are not entitled because you have children.

As a matter of fact, your children are a pain in my ass.  Why should that be?  I didn’t have kids.  Barring some fucking miracle, I’m not going to have kids.  Yet I live next door to a school for which I have to pay a special property tax assessment.  I don’t give a fuck about your children.

The children are our future?  I don’t think so.  Chances are, I’m going to die alone after a few years of being out of my fucking gourd with Alzheimer’s.  Why the fuck should your children care?  They won’t.  So why should I care about them now?

I don’t.  I get annoyed when I see children at events that are supposed to be for adults.  The Viking and I have memberships to the Exploratorium AfterDark.  Many museums around San Francisco have weekly or monthly evening events meant for adults.  I know they’re meant for adults because they have bars set up throughout the venue.  Bars with liquor.  And beer and wine.  Things that are not appropriate for children.

Times when adults are drinking when they don’t want children around.  Of course I understand that the Exploratorium is for children; I went there when I was a kid.  I loved it.  I love it now, which is why I got the membership.  For AfterDark.  The Viking and I began going to the AfterDark events in February.  We’ve gone every month since.

For the most part we had fun.  We had a lot of fun.  We’d take a couple of buses to the Marina, go to a restaurant in the area, and then walk to the Palace of Fine Arts, where the Exploratorium is located.  We’d have dinner and then go to the Exploratorium.  The Exploratorium, where I had been many, many times as a child.

When I lived in Santa Rosa as a child, I’d often go down to San Francisco – mostly with my mother and mostly on weekends – for adventures.  The adventures would often include the Exploratorium and Golden Gate Park, where people roller skated all the time when I was a kid.

So I understood that the Exploratorium was for children.  That’s why when I heard about AfterDark I was excited for the Viking and me to go for recreational purposes.

When we went in February, March, April, and May there were children, for sure, but few.  Mostly, the kids who were there were infants with their parents; it was relatively easy to avoid them.  Then in June there were quite a few kids.  But nothing like July.

When we went in July we were amazed by all the fucking kids.  Mind you, we were not there during the day, when children seem to run things; we were there at night, on the one night a month when the Exploratorium was not meant for children.  The Exploratorium even has day camp, which, if I had children, my children, if they existed, they would attend.

What I would not do, even if I had little brats, would attend adult events with my progeny.  That’s just rude.

The July AfterDark event was overrun with children.  Overrun!  Very shortly after entering, which, due to our membership, was thankfully “free,” we realized there were children everywhere.

The reason we went in the evenings was to avoid children, yet there they were – in spades.  Because we had the membership, and because we had been going monthly since February, we agreed that staying any longer would have been tortuous.

On our way out I saw that the exhibit which demonstrated soap and surface tension wasn’t manned, which was unusual.  I ran over.  I was able to to make a “screen” of soapy water.  I was very happy that there was no one else at the exhibit who would block me from figuring out how the science worked.

Happy until some kid decided to tell me what I was supposed to do.  Apparently I should have stuck my hand in the soapy water and touched the soapy “screen.”  I told the fucker that I had no interest in getting my hands dirty; he seemed confused.  My hands didn’t get dirty and that kid should have fucked off much sooner than he did.

Just before going to August’s AfterDark event we read that beginning in October no one under 18 will be allowed into AfterDark.  Apparently, many people had complained.  Good.  Too bad August was our last AfterDark before moving.

When we went in August there were still a bunch of children around, which was unfortunate.  Unfortunate, too, were the parents with their strollers and need to rest from the pain in the ass that is toting children around.  The Exploratorium has a cool bench that is wired so that when two people sit on it, each with one hand on a copper plate, they complete a circuit when they touch skin-to-skin.  It’s an exhibit, not just a bench, to people who aren’t burdened with children.  To the idiots with kids who sat on it without realizing it was an exhibit.

The Viking and I went to the bench later.  We each put a hand on the copper plate and then held hands.  The bench is wired so music plays when the circuit is complete.  The music gets faster and more intense the more contact there is between the bench occupants.  A fun thing we discovered was that if we completed the circuit with my mouth and the Viking’s finger that the music was entertaining, and it changed as I sucked.  If there weren’t so many damn kids around, we might have been able to do it with my mouth and his cock.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Family:  July 29, 2010."]

We slept in the room that will eventually be the baby’s room.  My sister and her girlfriend are trying to get the girlfriend pregnant.  Thankfully, there weren’t yet any baby paraphernalia around.

My sister made us yummy French toast, and then the Viking and I were ready to go.  The four of us were going to the same place but the Viking and I had done our prep work before we left San Francisco.  We stopped for ice and wine.  Ice for the ice chest.  Wine for me, because it’s best not to be sober around my family.

We drove east.  The weather changed significantly.  In Humboldt County it was in the 60s and foggy.  In Shasta County it was in the 90s and dry.

When we arrived at the campground, our tent was already set up.  The Viking and I set up the rest of our site, which was in full sun at that time of the day.  We were right next to the lake, the water of which looked refreshing.  I wanted to put my suit on and go for a quick swim with my step-sister and her two daughters.  I put my bathing suit in our bag in San Francisco.  However, when I looked for it once I wanted to don it, it was nowhere to be found.  I dumped out our bag, and went through all of our clothes but no swimsuit.

But I wanted to swim!  I was forced to take swimming lessons as a child.  I’m glad now, because I don’t worry I’m going to drown, but when I was a kid I hated it.  I’m not a strong swimmer, but I’m fine if the water is over my head.  I can tread water for a while.  So I hopped in the water in my clothes.  It was hot enough that padding around in wet clothes was more of a benefit than a detriment.

Pretty quickly I realized I could leave Isis off her leash without fear that she’d run off; she followed me around everywhere.  When I jumped in the lake she came right to the edge and looked worried.  I pulled her in the water and then swam out a bit.  She tried to follow me, she did, but Isis is not a good swimmer.  What I could see of her face looked panicked; her head was barely above the water.  I swam to her so she would no longer feel the need to swim toward me.  Once she got back on shore, she avoided getting in the water again for the rest of the trip.

It was still hot, though, so to cool down Isis lay down in the dirt.  She was a very dirty dog while we were camping.

That evening more people arrived.  We had five camp sites to accommodate everyone, which included my dad and step-mother; my step-sister and her two daughters; my sister and her girlfriend; my step-mother’s brother, his wife, and their adult daughter; and my step-mother’s brother’s adult son, his wife, and their son and daughter.  My step-brother and his girlfriend would arrive with their dog the next day.

We just hung out and visited.  I told my father about the move to Chicago.  My step-mother, who lived in the Midwest over 30 years ago, was amazingly not as negative as I expected her to be about the weather.  She suggested I get proper gear, which would make a huge difference in the winter.

Eventually the conversation became repetitive and boring.  And repetitive and boring.  My family doesn’t talk about anything of import so there are few arguments.  Or even discussions.  Boring.

The Viking and I went to bed.  The tent was big enough for us to stand in.  It was also big enough for our two sleeping bags, our clothes and such strewn about haphazardly, Isis’ bed, and empty space.  If the Viking and I had gotten into a fight we could have easily avoided each other in opposite corners of the tent.

We did not get in a fight though.  Instead, we fucked.  I had warned him that we’d not be able to fuck on the trip because we’d always be in close proximity to my family, and because I’ve gotten quite used to not having to be quiet.  I’m an adult who likes to fuck loud and so I do.

I had to be quiet that night though.  We could hear other family members talking about the same boring and repetitive shit they’d been talking about all evening, so it was easy to tell they couldn’t hear us.  It was the quietest I’ve ever been fucking the Viking.  We were so quiet we didn’t even disturb Isis, who was sleeping on her bed next to us.

On the way to the bathroom, I realized that my sister, step-sister, and sister’s girlfriend were up and having an actually interesting conversation so I hung out with them for a while.  The Viking and Isis stayed in the tent.  Us girls were talking about things we had in common; the Viking would have been bored.  Isis was pooped out from the heat and outdoor explorations.

Having spent many childhood summers in Shasta County, I know it doesn’t cool down much at night.  We slept on the sleeping bags, not in them.  That night it cooled down nicely so we slept well.  Which was good, since my family members tend to rise early and rudely.

To be continued.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 1)."]

Some time later I went to Litquake‘s culminating event, LitCrawl.  I went for to see one of the events, which was billed as literary smut.  I like dirty stories.  Since I was out for that, I figured I might as well go see Charles Gatewood, that guy I had met with Ramona.  It all took place in my neighborhood, and at the time I needed little reason to get out of the house.

Charles Gatewood read a story about taking pictures of serious blood play, which angered some local folks.  Very San Francisco.  After the event ended I said hi to Charles Gatewood.  I really didn’t want to return home too soon and I thought it’d be nice to tell him I enjoyed his story.  He very sweetly invited me to sit and chat with him for a bit.  We had a nice conversation and I learned that he lived very close to me.  He said I should go over to his place some time to see his photos.

The first time I went over Charles showed me around his apartment, which was also his studio.  There were many, many things to look at, and Charles and I had very pleasant conversation.  I stayed for hours, and Charles was nice enough to make me dinner.  He was very nice to make me dinner, but it was apparent to me that he didn’t know how to boil pasta.  He didn’t boil it, he simmered it until it was waterlogged and mushy.  I didn’t hold that against him though.

Ramona and I went over another time.  The three of us looked at photos from Folsom Street Fair; both Charles and Ramona had taken a ton.  We thumbed through Charles’ prints, and through the files on Ramona’s laptop.  We looked through some photography and art books, and discussed various things.  Charles called such events “Gatewood Salons” since they were intellectual.

I’m not sure when the sexy times between Charles and I started, but I began going over to his place every couple of weeks or so.  I’d go over, make something to eat, we’d discuss what was going on in our lives, and then I’d blow him.  Sometimes we fucked, too.

He suggested I start going shopping before going to his place so I could make tasty food.  I love to cook, and it’s always nice to have an appreciative audience.  Thanksgiving week I went to Whole Foods and bought up a shit ton of food.  I bought enough for a small dinner party, not just two people having a light dinner before what is always a heavy meal.  Charles had plenty of leftovers, but did kind of balk at how much everything cost.  I promised that in the future I’d spend his money more modestly.

Charles and I spent Christmas Day together.  It was a great day that was unfortunately marred by some not-so-great food.  I felt bad, I did, but Charles really wasn’t a very good cook.  He cooked mostly for himself, and he got proper nutrition, but except for his scalloped potatoes, nothing I’d eaten of his was very good.  On Christmas we had some of the most overcooked and leathery steak I’d had since my childhood, when people were overly concerned about undercooked meat.  Let me reiterate:  Charles is great, his food is not.

I decided that from then on I’d be doing all the cooking.  He would email me asking when I was available, we’d schedule a date, and I’d ask him what kind of food he was in the mood for.  It worked out rather well because it gave me a chance to plan a menu with some constraints – not spicy, low fat, within a budget, etc. – and to eat food that I knew was good.  I introduced the crazy concept of olive oil to him.  I cooked a turkey breast fillet, which he had never had.  We had quinoa when I wanted to show him some non-meat protein options.

Every time I went over we had a great time that usually culminated in a blow job.  Sometimes he took pictures of me.  Because he took pictures the old fashioned way, on film, and wasn’t too hip on scanning photos, I was confident that photos of me would not find their way onto the internet.  Also, I trusted him.

There were several other guys in my stable.  Guys I had fun fucking and hanging out with.  Guys I’ll miss.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

8:42 PM

Henry finally called me. We hadn’t talked since Wednesday night.  I’m going to an L.A. party with Laura and Vidal.  My sweet little baby is so cute.  I’ve already had two shots of tequila and I’ll probably have more.  We have tickets to Lollapalooza (I don’t think anyone knows how to spell it.) Beth, me, Francie, Roxanne and two other people I don’t know.  There went number three.  I’m gonna be sloshed.  My baby was on my shoulder.  She’s very cute.  I don’t want to go to work tomorrow and Monday and Tuesday.  I was mad at Henry for not calling me but as soon as I heard his voice I couldn’t be angry.  That’s not good.  I think he was going to ask if he and Dave could come over here or something but he didn’t ask soon enough ’cause I had already said yes to Laura.  I’m not going to say no to anyone because Henry might call or Henry might ask me somewhere ’cause he won’t.  If he wants my time, he’ll have to ask me ahead of time like he did for Duchess de Sade.  He’ll learn not to take advantage of the fact that I have no social life.  My baby plays with everything now.  She really likes my feet – to attack them because I’m walking.  Henry couldn’t remember when he had seen me drunk – he thought it was at his house.  So he couldn’t remember but in the background Dave said at Duchess de Sade and I told Henry that Dave was right.  But how would Dave know?  He wasn’t there.  But obviously Henry does talk about me.  Yippee.  I’d like to talk to Dave to find out what Henry says about me.  Or get Laura to when we go camping – if we’re still going.

I’ve had sex outside a few times.  Ok, more than a few times.  The roof of my current building is a favorite spot for blow jobs.

I consider blow jobs sex.  (Insert cliched Bill Clinton reference here.)  I consider pussy licking sex.  I consider mutual masturbation sex.

There are two guys n recent memory whom I’ve not fucked, but whom I’ve had sex.  One I’ve been with twice.  The first time I tossed a couple of condoms his way, because I always have condoms.  I jokingly said, “I guess that’s presumptive of me,” to which he didn’t respond other than to not use any condoms because his penis entered neither my pussy nor my ass.  Which is not to say we didn’t have a great time, because we absolutely did.

And that’s why we had a second time.  The second time was a lot of fun, but in a different way.  We didn’t have to do the bother of getting to know each other since we’d already fucked.  When we got back to my place after lunch we went to my room and he fucked me with my njoy Eleven.  That thing kicks ass.

I get a bit – just a bit – of the idea that he’s fascinated by my pussy that will take a lot.  Even if he isn’t, he’s fun, and goes along with the dirty things I do.

I first had sex outside when I was 16.  I was seeing a girl, Erica, about whom I’ve written in my “A Diary Entry” posts.  We fucked in a small cemetery in a field outside our work, a Round Table Pizza in Cameron Park, California.  For whatever reason, the cemetery had been fenced off, and “preserved.”  There were maybe four graves in the “cemetery.”  I can’t imagine that with all the development that must’ve occurred in that area that that cemetery hasn’t been forgotten except by the few of us who fucked there.

When I was around 20 years old, I fucked on the roof of a building and was subsequently caught by one of the building’s security guards.  The building was the Pasadena Civic Auditorium.  The Emmy Awards were held there for a while, including the year I fucked on its roof.

When I was in Bangkok for the second time, I fucked on the roof of my apartment building.  It was hot as fuck so we sought shelter in the rooftop laundry room.  It was still hot, but at least there was a breeze and a view.

I’ve been propositioned on a roof:  There’s something about the fresh air and expansive view that makes a guy want to pull out his cock.

I’ve “lost” my pants on a beach:  There’s something about the fresh air and sound of crashing waves that makes me want to expose my ass, and run to allow the sea air to tickle my clit and tease my pussy. I’ve fucked on a beach, being careful not to let sand get anywhere it could cause irritation and damage.

Right now I have someone “after” me to get it on on my roof.  He and I have fucked plenty, just not on my roof, yet.  Maybe soon ….

When I was in sixth grade I moved in with my father and his family, my sister, my step-mother, step-sister, and step-brother in Palo Cedro, California.  In our back yard was a creek in which, on at a very few occasions, us kids skinny dipped.

There’s a naughtiness to being naked outside.  Having sex outside is not only naughty, but it’s also clean, and fresh, and free.  It’s pure.  Outdoor sex is not dirty, or nasty, or rough, or wrong; it’s natural and right.

I look forward to camping with the Viking at the end of this month.

I swear.  True story.