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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I have no worries about being stuck somewhere without a means to deal with a period mess because I never have a period mess.  When I had first started my period, and for years until I went on the Pill, I never had regular periods.  I was always paranoid that I’d embarrass myself with a bloody mess at any time.  I woke up more than once in huge pools of blood.    Gross.  And annoying.

So it’s been a year of no need to take daily pills, of not worrying about making sure my prescription’s filled, of not worrying at all that I might be pregnant.  It’s glorious.

I didn’t really name my IUD, but I sure am happy it’s in there.  Even if a condom breaks there is an infinitesimal chance I will conceive.  I have no interest in having an abortion, but I have even less interest in having a kid.  I really, really don’t want an abortion.  I’ve heard the post-abortion waiting room dubbed the “room of sadness.”  I have no desire whatsoever to be in a room that anyone has called a room of sadness.  NO DESIRE.

The IUD is one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I’m not sure when I had to report to work the first time, but I know I had some time to meet up with my friend, Darren.  I had met Darren the summer before.  He was an Melbournian tram driver who had moved to Bangkok and started a restaurant.  When I first met him I challenged his qualifications for restaurant-running and he had assured me that he was no more qualified than the next guy who loved food.

I fell in love.  Darren was charming and generous and fun.  He was also fabulously gay.  His Australian accent wasn’t too annoying; he didn’t call everyone “mate” and he didn’t sound like a guy from an Australian tourist board commercial.  The Ex and I had enjoyed Darren’s company – and his restaurant – on many occasions.

So when I arrived in Bangkok in the summer of 2001 I went to Darren’s restaurant soon after settling into my new home.  His restaurant called, I kid you not, Eat Me, was also his home.  Architecturally, the building was cool.  It was poured concrete with modern, square lines.  It had black-paned, swing out windows and French doors that opened out to a balcony that took up the entire front of the building’s second floor.

On the balcony there was outdoor furniture where it was pleasant to sit at night, provided mosquitoes didn’t like you too much.  My ankles seemed to be irresistible to the particular species of mosquito that flew around Eat Me, but I still sat on that balcony night after night.  It was nice, especially after the restaurant closed and Darren sat with us, drinking limoncello, or chocolate vodka – which he made by mixing melted chocolate with vodka – or any number of mixed drinks.  Oftentimes the mosquito population wasn’t quite as annoying when I was full of booze and there were geckos on the building’s walls, barking and eating.

Darren greeted me heartily.  It was that second summer in Thailand that Darren and I became very close.  Soon, we began going to gyms together.  Gyms, plural, because we’d purchase day passes at gyms all over the city.  We’d check in, go to our separate locker rooms to change, work out together, and then go to our separate locker rooms.  In my locker room I’d usually get naked so I could sit and relax in the sauna.  I love saunas.  Darren would similarly get naked and go to the sauna, but he didn’t just relax.  We didn’t talk details, but I got the very distinct impression that he more often than not hooked up with random strangers in the locker room.  We both left the gyms very refreshed.

With letting Darren know I was in town out of the way, I met up with another friend, Mickey.  I had also met Mickey the summer before.  He was an American law school student who was in the same study abroad program.  Actually, he had practiced law for years, and was returning for an LL.M. with an international law concentration.  After the summer program in 2000, Mickey completed his LL.M. at Golden Gate University School of Law, where Jesús happened to be getting his law degree.  A Master of Laws takes only one school year so after he finished up his schooling in San Francisco, he returned to Bangkok.

By the time I arrived in Bangkok, Mickey was well-ensconced in an apartment with his boyfriend, a Thai man-boy many years Mickey’s junior.  He was many years my junior and Mickey was significantly older than I.  Mickey was so old he had worked as an extra on early episodes of “Happy Days” which began the year after I was born.

On the second day I was in Bangkok I visited Mickey at his apartment, which was in a high rise.  I met his boyfriend, who seemed to do little more than sit around the apartment.  He was happy to meet me because I was someone other than Mickey.  The boyfriend had moved from his little town to Bangkok to be with Mickey and had few, if any, friends in the city, which was understandably huge and scary to him.

I was itching to go out and so was the boyfriend.  We’ll call him Ait.  Thais tend to have long names that they shorten to very easy to pronounce nicknames.  Their nicknames can change throughout their lives and they can have multiple nicknames at any given time, depending on their relationships.  A parent could call someone one name and her friends could call her something completely different.  This name fluidity doesn’t seem to make Thais uncomfortable; it would me.

So the day I met Ait, we went out to a club.  We drank.  We danced.  We drank.  We drank.  And then we ended up back in my new apartment fucking.

I had promised the Ex many, many times that I would not fuck anyone when I was in Bangkok without him.  It was my second night in the city and I was fucking my friend’s boyfriend.  My friend, who was silly in love with his boyfriend.

I felt pretty shitty.  But not nearly as shitty as I felt when Ait asked me if all foreign women’s pussies were as big as mine.  Thais are not known for their tact.  Actually, it’s just that they don’t think saying out loud what is obvious is tacky like us Westerners.  I was nice enough not to say that the reason my pussy felt so big was because it was a pussy, not Mickey’s ass, and because his dick was small.

I figured it was inevitable that I’d fuck when I was in Bangkok without my husband looking over my shoulder so it was a good thing I got that first fuck out of the way on my second day in the country.

That left me the rest of the summer for fucking.  And a few other things.

[To be continued.]

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I wish this was some sort of joke, but it’s not.

The Russian is not a smelly guy.  He’s not dirty at all.  He is well-groomed.  How he actually becomes clean in this room is beyond me.

The Russian usually doesn’t bring chicks back to his place, and it’s obvious why.  But I can’t always host so I’ve been there more than once.  The first time, thankfully, I was quite drunk.  I was also horny.  And I remembered the Russian’s big, intact cock.

I wasn’t quite drunk enough when I took these photos.  Not quite drunk drunk enough to forget to take the photos.  Not quite drunk enough to forget what the bathroom looked like.  Not quite drunk enough.  Unfortunately, I can remember his bathroom.

I can also remember the Russian’s cock in my ass.  That is a much more pleasant memory than his bathroom.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I wanted very desperately to go home.  I was in no condition to ride my scooter home.  My boyfriend wasn’t scheduled to get off work until 2am.  I was stuck for several hours.

Once on the frat house’s first floor I found a vacant couch and sat down.  The room stopped spinning for a bit.  However, I did not have control of my head.  It bobbed around baby-like and finally came to a rest on the back of the couch.  Had I opened my eyes I would have been staring at the ceiling.  I did not open my eyes, though, until someone sat down next to me.

I still couldn’t hold my head up so I rolled it to the side to bring my couch mate into my field of vision.  It was a guy.  He began talking to me.  Obviously he didn’t think my conversational skills were important because he continued to talk to me despite my lack of coherent response.  The guy kept scooting closer to me, too.

Even in my blotto state I could tell the guy was hitting on me.  I could also tell that I was most definitely not interested.  Back in college when the Ex and I were living together, before we got married, I didn’t cheat on him, not even in my mind.  I had no interest in anyone other than the Ex.  Who was, of course not yet the Ex.

I had to get away from the guy on the couch.  I checked my watch.  I still had a long time before I could call home and actually reach my boyfriend.  This was before everyone had cell phones, which is why I was both wearing a watch and had to wait until the Ex got home to call him.  I gathered my strength, balanced myself, and got off the couch.  I didn’t bother to politely excuse myself; I just walked away.  Well, I probably stumbled away.

I was afraid to sit down anywhere for fear I’d be called upon to carry on a conversation.  I had some time to kill before I could call home.  I walked up to the house’s second floor.

The second floor consisted of bedrooms and communal bathrooms.  Each of the bedrooms had a locked door and its own phone line.  In my drunken/stoned stupor I knocked on every door I encountered.  Most of the doors went unanswered.  I think I even knocked on a bathroom door.  Finally, someone answered his door.  They were all guys, it was a frat house.

He let me in his room.  I don’t know if the guy thought he might have had a chance with me, but as soon as I told him I needed to use his phone to call my boyfriend he resigned himself to playing video games while I called home.  Or maybe I called the Emeryville Trader Joe’s and asked to have the Ex paged.  I was desperate to talk to him so he could pick me up as soon as was humanly possible.

I called.  I talked to the Ex.  He was on his way.  I left the house and sat on the curb near my scooter.  I sat there for quite some time.  I did not, however, puke.  Eventually the Ex picked me up and I explained the evening’s sequence of events.

The next day, after I slept off my drunk, I took some sort of public transportation into Berkeley to retrieve my scooter.  I took the scooter ride of shame home to my cute Oakland apartment I shared with my boyfriend.

One frat party is enough.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

My fraternity buddies and their fraternity buddies and I went to a dark room in the house’s basement.  There were a few bunk beds in the room.  Someone pulled the mattresses off of the top bunks and put them on the floor so we all had comfortable places to sit.  In short order a bong was passed around.

I was on my second drink.  I took a couple of hits off the bong.  I was experienced both drinking and smoking.  I started drinking when I was 14 and smoking pot when I was 16.  In the intervening years I had done one or the other pretty much on a daily basis.  I had not, however, ever mixed alcohol and pot.  Until that night.

That night was the first time in a long time that I had smoked pot.  I stopped for a couple of reasons.  One, I refused to pay for pot.  I figured I was a girl so I didn’t have to.  That worked for a while.  I had had a friend who was a dealer who gave me his shag, which was more like stems and seeds.  Two, I found that when I smoked pot I got headaches and then fell asleep, which was no longer any fun.  The headaches were probably due to the fact that I was smoking stems and seeds.

When I moved to Oakland to attend Berkeley I didn’t know anyone, and certainly wasn’t in the position to get pot for free.  At the time I went to the frat party I was much more of a drinker.  I had worked in a bar for four years, and once in our apartment in Oakland, the Ex and I often made ourselves margaritas.  Less than two drinks, even of Aftershock, certainly wouldn’t have done me in.

I did not, however, count on the exponential impact of the alcohol/pot combination.  As everyone was stoned, they were talking and joking and laughing.  Everyone but me.  I sat quietly, listening to everyone else have a good time.  I thought to myself that no one was actually funny; there was no reason for anyone to be laughing.  Why the fuck were they laughing?

I wanted to get out of that room.  I had had enough of these unfunny compulsive laughers.  I looked toward the door, which was straight across from me.  Well, not quite straight, as the bedroom door appeared to require a climb to get to.  It looked to me as though the entire room had tilted up 45º with me at the bottom.

I began the ascent to the front door. First, I had to get off my ass and onto my feet on a soft mattress.  Then I had to walk up the very steep grade to the bedroom door.  I had to do this without falling and without drawing too much attention to myself.  Also without showing anyone my panties under the short and flouncy skirt of my dress.  It was a difficult climb, but I finally made it to the door where I let myself out of the bedroom.

I could still hear the idiots laughing as I made my way down the florescent-lit hallway.

[To be continued …..]

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I was in college, as one would expect.  However, I was older than the average college student.  It had taken me five years to get through junior college.  No, I was not extra stupid.  I was, however, extra busy.  I worked full time and attended classes when I could.  I went to summer school.  I couldn’t take evening classes because I worked in a bar/club/pool hall, but I did take 7am classes.  I certainly couldn’t do it now, but back when I was in my early 20s I didn’t have much trouble working until 2am or later and making it to 7am classes on time.  And I was a drinker back then.  Ah, youth.

So I was in my mid- rather than early-20s at university, where I completed my upper-division coursework to get my bachelor’s degree.  I lived in Oakland with my boyfriend (later husband and now the Ex) and commuted up Telegraph Avenue to get to UC Berkeley on my Honda Elite scooter.  I also worked, both on and off campus.  I didn’t have a “typical” university experience, which would have been when I was younger, single, and living on campus, with spare time for socializing.

Because I was older, attached, and living off campus with little time on my hands, I tended not to socialize much.  I talked to people with whom I had classes, but usually only when we were forced to do group projects.  There were few people I called friend, and they tended to be very studious.  During the two years I was at university I went to only one party.

One of my on campus jobs was for the university police department.  I wore a police uniform, complete with polyester pants.  I also wore a police belt, but did not carry a gun.  Rather, I had a Maglite and a radio.  I could hit someone over the head with the battery-heavy flashlight and then call in to the real police, should I come to any danger.  My job involved walking people to and from campus after dusk, and patrolling the dorms and the stadium overnight.  Oftentimes we were paired up for our patrols.

Two of my coworkers with whom I had been partnered on several occasions belonged to the same fraternity.  Despite that, I liked them.  When we patrolled together we talked a lot to help pass the time.  I had gotten to know and like the frat boys before I knew they were frat boys.  I had a dim view of fraternities and the people who belonged to them so when I found out these two guys I actually liked belonged to a fraternity I was a little surprised.  I told them as much.

Both of them, both individually and together, worked to convince me that fraternities weren’t so bad, and that they weren’t the only two nice guys who belonged to one.  I was incredulous.  As a means to get me to realize not all frat boys were shitheads, they invited me to a party at their house.  I figured I should give a frat party a chance and agreed to go.

The party was on a Saturday night.  The Ex couldn’t go because he worked late stocking shelves at the Emeryville Trader Joe’s.  I donned a cute plaid dress with bobby socks and a pair of Hush Puppies loafers, hopped on my scooter, and went to the party.  I parked in front of the frat house and went inside.

The party was just getting started; I should have arrived at least an hour later.  I found my friends, who introduced me to a few people and showed me to the drinks table.  There were plenty of cups, lots of ice, and just one kind of liquor, er, liqueur, Aftershock (red).  I made myself a drink and sipped on it just a bit.  Aftershock tastes like shit, but I didn’t want to walk around empty-handed and alone.

My two friends, as hosts of the party, couldn’t spend all of their time entertaining me, and I didn’t expect them to do so, but I was hoping there would be more to drink so I could get a nice buzz.  I recalled that my coworkers had mentioned that they smoked pot, so I found them and asked if they would share with me.  It was almost 15 years ago and everyone who attends Berkeley has to smoke pot.

My friends gathered some of their buddies and we made our way to one of the many, many bedrooms in the frat house.

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

If I hadn’t already figured it out, the message which contained this was an indicator of the largest proportions:  “Do you have a problem taking charge. I mean, I’m not submissive, but would prefer if you had the ‘date’ planned out for us. There’s not much I would object to.”  Me thinks thou doth protest too much.  Yes, he was submissive; no, he didn’t want to have to worry about taking charge.

I took charge.  I told him what we would do on our date.  His true colors truly shined then.  He suddenly forgot how to use his brain.  In general, subs are a needy bunch.  I don’t have the patience nor the inclination to tell someone, step by excruciatingly detailed step, how to do anything.  He asked if he should take BART.  Take it or drive, not my concern.  I told him that if we got along we’d go to the Hot Tubs.  He told me he thought they were dirty.  He asked if a hotel room wouldn’t be better.  He asked how much hotel rooms cost.  He hadn’t seen me, so he didn’t know I look nothing like a fucking San Francisco tourism board.  Though he was emailing me, he had forgotten how to use the internet to check on hotel prices, etc.

He then wanted to see photos of me.  I referred him to the various places all over the internet where my photos can be found.  He still had trouble finding my photos because he had forgotten how to use the internet.

The night before our planned date he emailed saying he wouldn’t be able to make it, but that that night was free.  Too bad.  I had scheduled him for the next day, not that night.  A full two weeks later he contacted me again.  More than once he sent me emails titled “Tomorrow?”  No, not tomorrow; I plan ahead.

Finally, one night worked for both of us.  I told him where and when … and he flaked.

Between early February and mid-April he repeatedly contacted me asking if I was available that night or the night following.  I repeatedly told him that if he wanted to meet me he had to plan ahead.  When we did make a date, he flaked, again.

This guy’s pattern – which was probably helped with some liquid courage – was to email me saying how much he wanted to meet me right now, and then to flake when it came time to actually meet.  This happened even after I gave him my address and told him to just show up with booze in hand.  He was scared of “getting jumped” on BART because he would have alcohol on him.  Uh, they have these things that not only conceal the identity of what you’re carrying, but also make carrying much easier than holding a bottle of booze aloft.  His excuse that night?  His mother had unexpectedly stopped by.  Sexy!

Lest you, dear readers, think that I don’t give a guy a chance – or, in this case several chances – I again scheduled to meet him.  He texted whining about traffic.  I told him where to be.  I waited on the corner in front of the bar.  I texted.  I left.  I texted again, asking if he was that rude.  His response was that he didn’t see the point in walking up to me, saying, “You’re not my type,” and leaving.

And I agree, there wouldn’t be a point in doing that.  But how about saying hello?  How about sitting and talking over a drink?  Seems pretty silly to not even say hello after over three months of email wooing and several failed attempts at meeting.  This kind of bullshit is why I only meet someone for the first time in my neighborhood.

His tweet following our non-meeting:  “I’m such a dick! Don’t think it would have worked out. My bad”

Worked out?!  Meeting over a drink only doesn’t work out if the drinks are shitty, or spilled, or in some other way unable to be consumed.

I’m not so naive to not know he was referring to sex.  He saw me – if he saw me, and I have my doubts – and decided that he couldn’t have lowered his standards to a chubby/curvy woman of average height.  A woman who doesn’t wear high heels on a regular basis.  A woman who doesn’t wear shimmery lotion.  A woman whose scent choices are not sold at Victoria’s Secret.  A woman who is not a stripper.

I have nothing against strippers.  I’m not one.  I couldn’t be one for the reasons above.  Also, I’m too old.  Strippers, er, exotic dancers, work hard at being unattainable fantasies for their clients.  They’re tall and thin and wear heels and smell girlie.  And they’re off-limits.

Silly me, I was all average and attainable to this guy.  He didn’t know what the fuck to do.  If I liked the guy I would have fucked him, and I think he knew that.  Strippers, on the other hand, are not putting out for this guy.  Instead, he goes to strip clubs when he’s horny and fantasizes about the women who are way out of his league.  Because they’re doing their jobs well, he feels like he has a chance; he has a glimmer of hope that a woman as hot as a stripper will sit on his face and generally take charge in bed.

Only it doesn’t happen because he’s too afraid.  The ones who will actually fuck him aren’t hot enough for him, and the ones who are hot enough for him won’t actually fuck him.  Poor guy, he’s doomed to be unfulfilled and ashamed.  Fantasies are never the same as reality, that’s why they’re fantasies.  I should have known when he had a T-Shirt Hell t-shirt logo as his Twitter photo.

I’m not tall and thin?  You won’t be able to see shit when your face is being used as a seat so don’t worry your simple little brain with that one.

One of his tweets:  “Why do I want to try fisting someone so bad? Damn, I need a dirty whore, QUICK!!!”  He’s not willing to pay, he’s not willing to “settle” for less than his physical ideal.  He doesn’t need a dirty whore, he needs his mommy.

I swear.  True story.

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