Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Correctional Officer, Part 5."]

I tried to be a “better” wife.  Only the damage was done.  I figured everyone was miserable in their marriage and I was just one of them.  Even my attempt at some naughty, dirty, mind-blowing sex had failed.

The Ex continued to pester me about having “too much” contact with Correctional Officer.  I deleted emails I had sent to and received from Correctional Officer.  I began to use a different email account so the Ex would think CO and I were no longer in contact.

During a fight with the Ex I challenged him to check all of my email accounts.  You know, like they do in the movies.  The scene where the person being accused of cheating says to the suspicious spouse, “If you don’t believe me, go ahead and check” and then the suspicious spouse thinks better of his loved one and doesn’t “check.”  Well, the Ex called my bluff.  He checked.

The Ex knew my email passwords, and he looked at all my accounts.  And he saw that I was still in contact with CO.  I tried to change his password so he couldn’t even check his own email as a way to prevent him from getting to my emails.  I remember being in a panic in my office at work.  I remember the view across Broadway Street in Oakland when I talked on the phone with someone at AT&T/Yahoo in desperation.

One day while walking home from BART after work I got a call.  It was from CO’s area code so I thought it was him calling me from a phone other than his work phone (the number of which was always blocked).  It was a woman.  She introduced herself as CO’s wife.  Uh, hello.  I got dizzy.  I sat down on the sidewalk.  She asked me if it was true that her husband and I had sex.  I was tired of lying, and I figured she had it on good authority that the sex had occurred, so I admitted it.

She then screamed, “Fucking whore!  Fucking whore!”  It took me a little bit to realize I didn’t have to listen to her and I hung up.

Immediately I tried calling CO.  He didn’t answer.  I called his work.  I was told he had just left.  Fuck.  I was going to try to warn him that when he got home he was in store for some serious shit, but I couldn’t.

The next day I called him at work.  He said he couldn’t talk to me and he hung up.  I didn’t push contact with him.  I figured it was best that he work on his marriage without me gumming up the works.  No need to end two marriages.

Because mine was most definitely over.  I had been miserable for years.  Not completely miserable, but I had been telling the Ex that I couldn’t take various behaviors for a long time.  I had turned into a nag.  I hated having to ask the Ex to do things around the house that he should have done simply because we were two people living together.  I felt disrespected and taken for granted and had for a long time.

I felt like I kept giving in to whatever he wanted and got nothing in return.  When he wanted a huge television that we couldn’t really afford, we bought it on the condition that I would no longer have to ask him to unload the dishwasher, his one major kitchen chore.  Of course that didn’t last.  He still has that fucking 50″ tv though.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued ….]

[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 ….]

The phone isn’t ringing.

Those guys were asking me an awful lot of questions last night.  I can just see myself following Henry around and pacing.  I’m such a geek.

Now I’m listening to “Love Line” everyone else has lame love problems and I can’t get anything.  The phone isn’t ringing.

I want hairless arms.  This is a very lame call.  How did she get on the air?  The screeners are fuckheads.  They think they have some lesbian love triangle thing going and the Poorman is being a geek about the whole thing.  What a sexist dork.  Shit, I just want to kiss someone.  Is that so wrong?  Is that too much to ask?  I think not.  Will I ever meet anyone else?  How will I ever meet a bunch of girls who like girls.  My hair falls out a lot.  Oh this poor guy has sex only two to three times a day.  Shit, two or three times a year would be great for me.  I’m so depressed.  The phone isn’t ringing.  I just want to die.  I want some sex.  This is depressing.  I don’t know why I get so hooked.  This boy’s driving me batty.

THE PHONE ISN’T RINGING SHIT!

Why do I put myself through this?  Why do I have to think about him so much?  I hate this!  I get so damn frustrated!  Hey, what would happen if I put everything on the line?  I’m just afraid nothing.  But actually I have no idea how he really thinks or how he will really react.

It’s gorgeous outside.  Wonderful weather.  Apartment A has their air conditioner on.  I think I’ll get stoned and go run.  This is one of the best reasons to live in beautiful Southern California.  Why would anyone with naturally curly hair want to live where it is excessively humid?  Their hair would always be frizzy.

This chick’s on drugs.  Well, not any more, but she still isn’t all together.  The screeners are really fucking up tonight.  Now this guy as a “friend named George.”  Who gives a fuck.  What is the point?  Who cares?  Not me.

Listening to this depresses me cause people have two boyfriends or too many lovers.  Shit, I can’t even get one.  This chick is pregnant.  I’ll never have to worry about that.  I just don’t know about sex and drugs.  They make people act weird.  When I thought last night that Henry had done heroin I got knod of protective.  But he wasn’t doing heroin, he was snorting coke.  Maybe it’s some sort of dealing with his feelings.  Fuck, I wish I could help him.  I can see it now – everyone expects Maury to die from doing just a little too much heroin.  Henry acquiesces to Maury’s pleading for someone to “party” with him but Maury, because he’s so fucked up, sets him up with just a little too much and Henry dies.  But Maury’s just fine.  Irony galore.  I think I’ll have to go run off my depression.  I want to talk to [Step-Sister] about butt talk and boys.  She seems so well-adjusted and normal.  It depresses me cause I’m so fucked up.  At least I sure feel like it.  I don’t want to end up like [Sister].  She’s twenty-two not cause it’s May 6 but I don’t even meet any people so I don’t think I’m in danger of getting married.  She didn’t get married until she was twenty, I have two more years.  I better get a car now that my dumb mother has gotten my hopes up.  My eyes are always watering and I wish I knew why.  Fuck, I need my jacket back.  Maybe I’ll have to call Henry before he goes to work in the morning even though I know he hates me.

Why are guys do dumb?  Then again, girls are dumb too, just in a different way.  Why do my eyes have to water so much?  They have no reason.

Cinqo De Mayo, 7:51 pm

The breeze dances over my skin.  The cat ate the tuna.  I just got a

later

I think my lungs are deteriorating.  Henry hasn’t called me – he hates me.  I’ve made a fool of myself.  The night is warm – the kind you

T.V. is depressing.  Jeffrey turned off the light switch last night when he left so now my clock is off and flashing.

He hasn’t called and I don’t expect him to.  Everything’s over before it started.  Shit.  He doesn’t care about anything.  The inside of my arm aches.  I want to yell at him.  I want to go for a walk at night with him and stop somewhere and then kiss him and then … shit, here I go again.

I got Shilo some rawhide bones.  They’re very tiny and cute like she is.

Shit.  Last weekend he was on me like flies on flypaper.  this week I have the plague.  What the fuck?  Did he get some in that period of time or just lose interest for no reason?  Did he have to “act cool” around this friends or does he actually hate me?  Is life totally stupid and unfair or what?

I think I did get some color today.  And I’m going to lay out again tomorrow.  With my noisy neighbors, I’ll be up at seven to assure me plenty of sunlight hours.  I guess I’ll get up and fall back asleep outside.

Why are boys so stupid?  Why ask why?  Try But Dry.  I just want a chance to talk to him once before he actually stops speaking to me.  I want my tape back and he’ll be sure to get his.  I need my jacket – shit, it has my paycheck in it.  Damn, maybe I’ll have to call him.  All boys are simpletons.  Why does this crap have to happen to me?  What have I done?  Was I a bad child?

I believe that I am getting a cold.  I hope that I already have it and this is the worse it’ll get.

Ya know, I keep expecting the phone to ring.  Why don’t I just give up?

Why can I so clearly see us together?  And [Step-Sister] said I didn’t have an imagination.  Ha.  It runs wild with the best of them.  It barks with the big dogs.  Henry Henry Henry Henry Henry Henry Henry Henry why how what for Henry call me talk to me tell me something for once have you ever really told me anything do I really know anything about you not minor “personal” stuff but feelings Henry reactions thoughts are all guys like this it’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with one they’re such a pain.  Jeff’s a masochist, what about me.

I would like to sleep outside but I haven’t a sleeping bag and I’m sure my neighbors would look at me kind of funny.

Why didn’t Henry defend my honor?  He could have at least said, “Hey, dude, shut up man.”  It would’ve been easy and would have said something to me about his manliness (is that the right word?)

Maybe I should make some bread ’cause the phone sure as fuck isn’t ri(ya, so I just checked to make sure the ringer was on)nging.

At least Jeff had the good fortune of getting the minutes right on the clock.  I think he left around four in the morning.  My god.  Should I was or Epilady?  Deanna has and Epilady that I’m sure she would let me use.

Back when I used Craig’s List, I used it a lot.  I both placed ads and responded to ads.  One to which I responded was placed by a couple who wanted a lady to participate in threesomes with them.  Actually, I responded to several such ads.  This couple, however, I actually fucked.

The guy and I exchanged emails.  He told me they were a professional couple.  They all say they’re a “professional” couple.  Frankly, I don’t give a shit what the people I fuck do for a living, but in the Online casual sex world “professional” seems to mean “not creepy.”  Or at least that’s what it’s supposed to mean.

I don’t know if this couple was creepy per se, but I certainly didn’t see them do anything professional.  In the emails I exchanged with the guy he said their only rule was that his penis could not go into my vagina.  Other things could go into my vagina, and all sorts of things could go into my mouth, but him fucking me was off-limits.  I don’t recall us discussing anal sex at all prior to our first meeting.

Our first meeting wasn’t planned.  I was home alone late one night when I received an email from the guy.  He requested my presence that night.  They lived relatively close and he assured me that my cab fare would be covered.  Usually it’s best to meet in public first to see if there’s chemistry, but I’d gotten a decent vibe from the guy via email and, well, I was horny and up for an adventure.

I got dressed and called a cab.  I was a tad worried when I arrived at the address he had given me, since it was definitely not a house or apartment building.  But there was a man waiting out front, and he paid the cabbie, so I assumed he was the guy.  He was tall and blond with some facial hair.

He let me in their place, which had been converted from a less residential use.  It was dimly lit but I could tell the place had some serious square footage.  While San Francisco isn’t quite like Manhattan, real estate is definitely pricey, so a big place is unusual.

We walked to the back of the building where there was a living room area set up.  I sat on the couch, which was facing a rather large television, which was not on, and a curtain.  While I still sat on the couch he went through the curtain.  I heard that he was talking, but not what he was saying.  I figured he was talking to her, but wasn’t at all sure.

Eventually, he bid me behind the curtain.  Beyond the curtain was a “bedroom.”  The bedroom had a large office area with a very large, multi-winged desk.  He and I sat at the desk while he said all the things we’d do to her.  I heard not a peep from her, and began to wonder if “she” existed.  But then I peeked over and sure enough, there was a woman bound spread-eagle to the bed.

We made our way over to the bed.  He kept up a constant chatter about what was going on.  After all, she couldn’t see so he had to keep her updated.

He directed me to do various things to her.  I was fine; I follow direction well and I was having fun.  I licked her pussy.  I fingered her pussy.  I sucked his cock.  I watched him fuck her.  I do so like watching couples fuck.

The whole time she made clear she was enjoying herself.  She didn’t talk, but she did moan.  He interpreted.  He assured me that she liked what was going on.  I, too, liked what was happening.  We continued with our ministrations, focusing mostly on her pussy, as there it was open for us.

I did whatever he told me.  I licked.  I sucked.  I fingered.  Then he grabbed my wrist.  He whispered in my ear that he wanted to fist her but that his hands were too big.  He said my hands were just the right size.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued, of course.]

[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.

[Continued from "Slave Auditions, Part 2."]

The next potential slave to arrive was young and sweet.  And had an incredible head of hair.  He was very young – just 19 years old.  Sugar claimed she liked older men almost exclusively but she was definitely taken by his apparent innocence.

And it may have been only apparent.  He told us he had been to Power Exchange several times.  Wow, and at such a tender age.  I suppose people are figuring out much younger what they’re into and how to make it happen.  Back when I was 17 I knew I was interested in being tied up and spanked but other than the Society of Janus, which I could not join since I was not yet of age, I had no way of connecting with similarly inclined people.  By the time I was 18 I lost interest in the idea of socializing with the intent to find someone to spank me, and I’m still not too keen on the whole munch thing.

We dubbed our young potential slave Nineteen.  Our nicknames certainly didn’t have to be creative or original, only easy for us to remember.  Nineteen cleaned pretty well and and followed directions well.  By this time Sugar and I had had plenty of mimosas and wine and were certainly embracing the spirit of the day.

We had Nineteen show us his penis.  He was uncircumcised, just the way I like ‘em.  But we didn’t do anything with his dick other than look at it.

Soon thereafter Glasses arrived.  We dubbed him Glasses because he wore very thick ones.  He was very quiet and mousy and out of everyone the best cleaner.  He also took very well to direction.  Sugar and I were well into mistress mode when he arrived.  We had no problem telling him what to do and we had him clean sans pants.

When Glasses was here my neighbor Ruby stopped by to help us assess.  It was a raucous good time.  Ruby didn’t stay long, and we soon dismissed Glasses.

Then Sugar, the Viking, and I went upstairs where the Viking was nice enough to tie up Sugar’s lovely breasts.  She looked quite nice.  The three of us were having a very nice naked time complete with hemp rope when the phone rang.

Ooops!  We forgot we had more potential slaves scheduled.  I threw on my clothes and answered the door while Sugar and the Viking got dressed themselves.

I opened the front door to a vision of loveliness.  Her makeup was perfect.  She wore a bustier with shorty shorts and fishnets.  She carried a large purse.  She was demure, as is appropriate for a lady come to clean.

She started cleaning right away.  She was adorable.  She had a foreign accent and told us she was from Austria.  She was so sweet and cute.  Sugar dubbed her Cutey.  We loved Cutey immediately.  She was very obedient.  She was fun!

I called Ruby and told her to come back, that she would absolutely love our latest potential slave.  Ruby is a drag queen at heart – she barely needs an excuse to get dressed up, and she makes it a point to go to costumed events – she is very theatrical.  I knew she would love Cutey.  In addition, Ruby speaks German, and I thought it’d be fun to listen to Ruby and Cutey talk to each other in Cutey’s native tongue.

The whole time Cutey was cleaning she was also like our girlfriend; it’d be a blast to go to dance clubs with her.  She knew how to put herself together.  She had a great ass.  She was most definitely a girl.

Only of course she was not a biological girl, so when the Viking – who identifies as a straight man – whispered to Ruby that he was conflicted Ruby couldn’t help but chuckle.  Ahh, San Francisco, how we love you for making us question our ideas of gender and sex and sexuality.

Cutey stayed longer than her allotted half hour because the next potential slave flaked.  We were glad since we were having so much fun with her.  We let her have some wine with us and had her sit down and chit-chat; the service portion of the interview was over.  She pulled out her purse, in which she brought some things that she thought might be of use for the tryout.  She had rope – fun! – and she had various anal toys – also fun – and she had a CB-3000.

I would not have known what a CB-3000 was if I hadn’t seen a video of Eve Minax (whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and …) on Carnal Nation discussing male chastity devices.  [The video seems to have disappeared from Carnal Nation, but if you can find it, please let me know the link – shazamsf@sbcglobal.net.]  They are fascinating.

Cutey showed us how the CB-3000 worked, but not on her penis.  She wasn’t yet comfortable showing that side of herself.  However, by the time I walked her to the door she certainly didn’t seem to mind when I copped a feel.  We made out a bit and I rubbed up against her cock, which was not very girlie.

Out of fourteen scheduled potential slaves only five showed up.  That means I won the bet I had with the Viking.  The wager?  I got to gloat.  We hadn’t bet anything of substance because we both knew there were few things I would want that he wouldn’t already have done for me if I asked.  But I won.  Ha!

I swear.  True story.

[True story that is not yet done.  The next week we continued our slave auditions.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I swear.  True story.

I had my first threesome with two guys. I was 18.  Or maybe 17.  Either way, it was when I lived in my first apartment alone, a very small studio.

My boyfriend at the time had finally admitted to me that he found men attractive. Actually, after months of me teasing him he finally acquiesced.  I knew he liked guys, I just knew it.

I’m of the opinion that everyone is a little bisexual, pansexual, whatever; everyone likes cock and pussy to a degree.  My boyfriend at the time was certainly no exception.  He liked guys but had all sorts of shame and guilt about it.  I hope I showed him that he needn’t be ashamed about being attracted to someone of the same gender.  I was openly bisexual, I told him my mother was an out lesbian, and I had plenty of friends who were gay and/or bi.

One such friend was a bisexual guy with whom I had fooled around previously.  As soon as a broached the subject of a threesome he was in.

My boyfriend, on the other hand, had to be talked into it.  He was so fucking far into the closet that he was very secretive and constantly scared of being “discovered.”  I assured him that the person I had in mind was cool and that he didn’t know anyone my boyfriend knew.  I also assured him that he was his type.  My boyfriend had admitted he had a crush on his neighbor, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, and – to me – white trash-looking guy.  My bisexual boy was blond and blue, but not white trashy.

After much cajoling my boyfriend agreed.  But then we had the scheduling issues.  One of the most difficult things with threesomes is coordinating the schedules of not two but three people.

Finally, the day of the threesome came.  My boyfriend still lived with his mother and the bisexual guy had a roommate so it was agreed that we’d have our threesome at my place.  My very tiny place.  Really, it must’ve been about 200 square feet.  Maybe.  The “kitchen” was a corner of the room with a sink and counter, tiny freestanding stove, and college-sized refrigerator.  There was also a walk-in closet and a bathroom that wasn’t large enough to accommodate a bathtub, just a shower.  I paid $395 per month including utilities.  Ahh, the good old days.

The furniture in the apartment/room, other than the stove and refrigerator, consisted of a dining table that served as a tv stand and a desk, three dining chairs, two stacked orange crates that served as a entertainment center – meaning they held my CDs and “stereo,” a boombox – and bookshelf, and a queen-sized futon that was always in bed position.  I was a slob at the time so most of the time my floor was covered in dirty clothes, magazines, and other household detritus.  At the time I was not the type to clean up for company.  It was my first apartment on my own and no one was telling me what to do so I did whatever the fuck I wanted.

The three of us sat on my bed.  It was awkward.  So my boyfriend pulled out the pot.  He smoked a lot of pot.  A lot.  It was rare that he wasn’t high.  The three of us smoked pot.  It was still awkward.

Finally I did what I had to do – I kissed the bisexual guy.  This was the first of many sexual instances in my life where I knew if I didn’t just fucking go for it that nothing would happen.  Sometimes I like it, sometimes I resent it.

Then I kissed my boyfriend.  Then I kissed the bisexual guy.  It was fun.  I definitely liked going back and forth between the two men, noting the contrasts between their kissing styles.

Eventually they kissed each other.  And then they forgot about me.  Really.  From then on I was completely and totally ignored.  Ignored.

They kissed.  They got naked.  They sucked each others’ cocks.  Their bodies writhed.  I read a magazine.  As we were in my apartment and I had no car I had little else to do.  As my apartment was so tiny I had little else to go.

I sat on one side of the bed reading my magazine while they went at it.  I wasn’t even fascinated enough to watch.  I was bored.  And annoyed.  And irritated.  How fucking rude of them not to include me in the threesome that I set up?!

Eventually they finished.  I’m pretty sure they didn’t fuck, but they definitely sucked.  I have no clue if either or both of them came.  I didn’t care.

I never saw the bisexual guy again.  My boyfriend and I continued to go out, and thereafter were friendly, for some time.  My first threesome was most definitely a disaster.

I swear.  True story.

The new roommate is so so much better than the last ones.

He’s pleasant to be around.  He doesn’t spread crumbs all over the couch.  He doesn’t watch stupid, stupid television.  He doesn’t go to bed before 10pm.  He doesn’t come home from work in a shitty mood asking where the fuck his things are.  He seems to genuinely enjoy conversing with me.  He appreciates my cooking.  He knows how to cook.  He can be quiet.  He’s downright pleasant in the mornings.  He uses a normal amount of household paper products.  He doesn’t seem to be passive-aggressive.  He seems to be an adult.

He’s not my ex-husband.  He’s not my ex-husband’s insane pregnant girlfriend.

He does, however, make me very tired because he gives me really nice big orgasms.  This is hardly a complaint.

I swear.  True story.