Random Rim Jobs

DON’T KNOW THE DATE OR TIME OR ANYTHING EXCEPTTHIS FUCKING CAT WONT STOP MOVING I THINK I’M DONE.  THE CAT MUST BE ON SOMETHING ITS SMOKEY.  THIS THING WILL END SOON I HOPE YEST FUCK SHIT

WHEN WILL THIS STOP.  JOCELYN HAD A BABY GIRL

7:48 AM

Right now it’s too much bother to explain but I can still feel it sort of I want to sleep but I have to go to work.  Lord have mercy my jaw is just so sore I’ve been clenching

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

I hate you for fucking me.

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

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

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

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

I hate myself.

My mother has Alzheimer’s Disease.  She was diagnosed with dementia when she was 58.  She is now 63.  She looks 75.  She is a sad woman who cries whenever anything makes her uncomfortable.  She has reverted to almost child status.

Which is very sad because she had a shitty childhood.  Her father was an asshole.  That is putting it mildly.  My mother was the oldest of 12 children, and in one way or another my grandfather sexually abused each one of his 12 children.  For years my mother thought he had only messed with the girls, which meant there were nine boys who had a chance to be normal.  However, after their father died, the adult kids swapped some stories.

My grandfather sexually abused each one of his children.  And because they had been raised in an environment of disgusting, dirty, bad, shameful incest, some of those children abused some of their siblings.  It is horrible and shameful and the thought of what it must have been like to grow up as one of many military brats moving around often and finally settling in rural northern California all while their father had “special time” with each of them makes me alternately nauseous and weepy.

So it’s extra sad that my mother thinks both my sister and I are her sister because that means she sometimes thinks she’s still a kid, when things were shitty.  Really shitty.  Horrible.

My mother was disowned and shunned by her family when she came out as a lesbian.  That was when my mother and father were divorcing when I was four and my sister was eight.  My father didn’t take the news too well.  He drank a lot.  I get my alcoholism from my father.  He got it from his Native American grandmother. He stopped drinking for the most part when he became a born again Christian.

My dad and step-mother planned a family get-together at Whiskeytown Lake.  The plans began back in December 2009 when my step-mother reserved the multiple camp sites.  My step-sister had requested that the family camp at Wiskeytown, where we had gone camping numerous times when we were kids, living in Redding.  I lived in Redding, California, roughly from the time I was eleven until I was fourteen.  We did a lot of camping during that time.

When we were kids, my step-sister and I went “cruising for boys” when we went camping.  She was infinitely more comfortable and flirtatious than I.  I always went along for the ride, talking to whomever she had lured into talking to us.

I realized that it would be a good idea if I visited my mother, and then my father and his family planned the camping family reunion.  I could visit both parts of my family on one trip; two birds, one stone, and all that.  I would drive up to Humboldt County, where my sister and my mother lived, and then over to Whiskeytown, in Shasta County, to camp, before driving down the 5 to get home to San Francisco.   I figured I could visit my mother and my father and his family, along the way announcing  to everyone that I was moving.  Moving far away.  Moving to Chicago.

It was also on that trip when I’d introduce everyone to the Viking.  The Viking was nice enough to go with me on the trip despite all the stories I’d told him about my family.

On Thursday morning I picked up the rental car.  We loaded the trunk with our gear.  Our gear consisted of a small ice chest we bought for the trip filled with food we had prepared for the family pot luck dinner on Saturday night, clothes, and some sheets and blankets.  The Viking and I do not camp.  We have no camping equipment, and we like it that way.  We justified the ice chest purchase because it’s small enough to use for picnicking, which we do do.  My parents, who camp all the time, had everything else we’d need, including a huge tent, sleeping bags, a camp stove, and folding chairs.

We put Isis, along with her two beds, in the back seat of the car and we were off.  After a stop for ice and coffee we were off.  The Viking had never been across the Golden Gate Bridge so after a very foggy drive where most of the bridge couldn’t be seen at all he had to trust me when I told him that the Golden Gate Bridge was, in fact, behind us.

Up the 101 we went.  It got a lot warmer, and then cooled down again by the time we reached Humboldt County.  We found my sister’s house, no thanks to Google Maps which directed us off the 101 via a road that doesn’t exist.  My sister and her girlfriend showed us their cute little house complete with two dogs and garden.

We had a quick snack of local oysters.  The Viking doesn’t like oysters, but he was nice enough to do all of the shucking for us.  Then we went to visit my mother.  We picked her and her dog up and went to a park.

My mom can barely walk.  She’s often confused.  When I told her about the move to Chicago she burst into tears.  She was very happy to see Isis.  Isis used to be my mother’s dog; I got her when my mother’s partner abandoned her and kicked her out of the house the two of them owned together.

It may not seem like much.  It probably seems like nothing, me taking care of a dog that used to be my mother’s rather than taking care of my mother.  But it’s what I can do.

After a tearful goodbye with my mother, we went back to my sister’s place where there was a pot luck dinner already in progress.  We drank wine, ate, and socialized.  My sister has lived in Eureka for over ten years and has a group of loyal friends.

Eureka is too small a town for me, and the weather is a tad depressing, but my sister loves it.  She went to college in Humboldt County, too.  Coincidentally, the same college our parents attended when they met.  She lives in the same town both she and I were born.  She’s gone back to her beginnings, while I’m making a break for it.

To be continued.

I swear.  True story.

Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone trans, do not put suckers in pussies.  You see, the vagina has a delicate balance of bacteria and yeast.  Kill all the bacteria, which can happen with some oral antibiotics, and the yeast can take over, causing a yeast infection.

Some of you may think that a yeast infection is a stinky prospect.  You would be wrong.  If a pussy smells unclean when it is clean, that is probably bacterial vaginosis, which is caused by too much bacteria, not too much yeast.  The owner of said stinky puss needs to go to a doctor.

A yeast infection does not require a doctor’s visit any longer.  When I was a kid, it did.  The yeast fighting medication was doled out by prescription only; now it’s on drugstore shelves.  I lived with my mother from age four to age 11.  We never had much money, and my mother rarely had health insurance.  When she got a yeast infection she did not go to the doctor to have expensive medicine prescribed; she went to the grocery store for plain yogurt.

I would suggest to this woman that she buy herself some yogurt because introducing sugar to the vagina can do what taking bacteria away can do:  Mess up the delicate balance of bacteria and yeast in the vagina.  You see, dear readers, yeast really likes sugar.  It eats it up, gets all strong, and reproduces.  As long as there’s enough food, yeast will keep reproducing.

Those little yeast fuckers aren’t stinky, but they are itchy and very, very messy.  The discharge associated with yeast infections is, uh, unsightly.  Ok, it’s just plain gross.  It’s lumpy.  It’s sticky.  And, with an untreated yeast infection, can be voluminous.  There is nothing sexy about it.

There is nothing sexy about scratching at one’s crotch all the time either.  If you can find a partner who will look past the scratching and the discharge, you should still be careful.  Be careful alone as well.  Toys and boys can both get yeast infections.  Just when yours is all cleared up, an infected toy or penis can give that nasty infection right back to you.  No thank you.

Several years back I kept getting yeast infections.  I treated my infections with over-the-counter medication, which is not cheap, usually around $15 US.  Just when I thought the treatment had worked, I’d get that familiar and dreaded tingling that signaled the beginning of another infection.  Dammit!

I was married and monogamous at the time so it was pretty easy to make sure the one penis that was going in me wasn’t.  I was not getting reinfected by him, yet the infections just kept coming.  At the time I was monogamous, but had cheated on my husband when I was in Thailand (both the first and second times).

I had been tested for all the STIs, including HIV, when I returned from Thailand.  I was treated for an STI that was cleared up with a single dose of antibiotics, but had not tested positive for anything else.  I was relieved, and felt very lucky considering I’d had unprotected sex with multiple partners in a place with a high rate of HIV.  However, when I kept getting yeast infections, I began to worry.

HIV, as you all know, fucks with the immune system.  Being able to keep yeast infections at bay is one of the things a non-immunocompromised body does all the time.  Recurring yeast infections can be a sign that the immune system is compromised.  I went to the doctor, because at the time I did have health insurance.

I had another HIV test, which was negative.  Yet I continued to have yeast infections.  I was not having any fun at all between the no sex, the itching, and the discharge, and I still didn’t know what was causing my flora and fauna to go out of whack.  I had not taken any antibiotics.  My diet had not changed significantly.  I wasn’t using new soap ….

Wait a minute, I was using new soap.  I had been given a big bottle of Summer Hill scented Crabtree & Evelyn body wash by my parents (my father and step-mother).  My step-mother had obviously picked the scent based on her own taste in scents.  I didn’t want to be ungrateful, and it didn’t smell as bad as, say, patchouli or Chanel No. 5, so I used it.

I love a lot of the products Crabtree & Evelyn carry, my favorite being Goatmilk soap.  However, I will never use any Summer Hill product again.  The smell makes me squirm and itch with the memory.  I stopped using the body wash and the yeast infections stopped.  Well, at least from that cause.  They’re always lurking around the corner if I take the wrong antibiotics, or if I use a strongly scented soap, or, or, or.

I swear.  True story.

I have more pretty flower photos from Derrick D, the very close friend I’m going to miss terribly when I move.  I’ve known DD for almost three years after having met through Craig’s List Casual Encounters.  I responded to his “Fag Looking for a Hag” ad.  I hope when I move I’ll be able to find a fabulous gay friend, one who will have no interesting fucking me.

This one, left, is pretty and pink and seems to have something dirty and phallic coming out of it.  Another of nature’s butt holes.

The pink flowers in particular remind me of flushed body parts.  Of blood-engorged dicks and clits and lips, both facial and nether.  This flower to the right reminds me of lips of all sorts.

On the other hand, this bud that’s just barely opening looks like a cock head.  That looks like a pee hole with a nice, pointy head.  That looks like something I could literally get my mouth around.

The flower in this last pic seems to be hiding something.  Something mysterious down in there.  Maybe it’s warm and wet and squishy.  Oh, sorry, it’s just a flower, it’s not an ass.

Derrick and his new iPhone are taking some lovely photos around San Francisco.

I swear.  True story.

One year ago today, I had my IUD inserted.  In late July or early August I had a period, and I haven’t had one since.  It is glorious.  I never have to buy tampons or sanitary pads … yes, sanitary pads.  (You Distorted View Daily fans may know this reference.)

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.

I got my first professional haircut in almost three years.  It felt so nice to have my hair washed.  I love having someone else washing my hair, especially with good, strong fingers and cool (not cold) water.  I like massages, but if I had to choose between a massage and a good scalp-scrubbing hair washing, I’d choose the hair washing with a good scalp scrubbing.

I love my hair.  I can say without reservation that my hair is my best quality.  I’m pretty vain about my hair.  I have great hair.  No gray.  None.  I’m 37 years old, which makes the no-gray thing pretty fucking rare and a fact of winning the genetic lottery.  My sister didn’t have the same genetic luck; she started going gray in her mid-20s.  I took after my father who, at 61, has a full head of thick, brown hair with only a few grays.  My sister’s hair is more like our mother’s, which at 64 is fully gray.

This is me with my new haircut.  Oscar, the very cute gentleman who cut my hair, went through the work of blow drying my hair straight.  I have a lot of hair.  So much that Oscar had to ask a coworker to begin working on his next client so he could have time to blow dry my hair.

Fortunately, Oscar’s next client was the Viking.  It was the Viking who referred me to Oscar.  It was the Viking whose hair was cut from long and pony-tailed to short and reasonable, and hot.  The Viking was referred to Oscar and the Barber Lounge by DD.  DD is a fun fabulous gay who has helped the Viking with grooming and fashion.  The Viking is worried that he’ll not be able to find a good fabulous gay elsewhere.  He’s wrong.  No matter where we go there will be fabulous gays; I will accept nothing less.

I’ve not yet washed and styled my hair since the new cut, but I do like the new ‘do.  I also like the Viking’s new ‘do,which is even shorter than it was before.

I think Oscar knew that the Viking was nervous about cutting his hair back when he cut off the Viking’s long, long ponytail.  This time, the Viking had already had months of shorter hair so it wasn’t a shock when it was cut even shorter.  Short and cute.  I really like the Viking’s new ‘do.

He was nice enough to pose all silly for me.  His “punishment” was to have his pic posted.  (It’s been done with his full consent, I promise.)  It’s hard to argue that he doesn’t look very sweet, and quite cute.  Really cute.  Look at those cheeks.  Look at those dimples!  Look at that pretty smile.

I swear.  True story.