Random Rim Jobs

I have never been to the Guggenheim Museum in New York.  I have only been to New York once, when I was 19, and didn’t have a chance to go to any museums during my short, two day visit.  I did some shopping, including discovering Byblos Perfume, and going to my first Urban Outfitters.

So I’ve never been to any museum in New York.  I love museums.  I would love to return to New York for museums and food.  I love both.

I also love Lego.  This is a Lego version of the Guggenheim in New York.  It was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, who has been called the 20th Century’s most important architect.  I became interested in Lego as a young kid, as most Western kids do, and I became a fan of architecture in elementary school.

In fourth grade (grade four to you Canadians) I was picked out to take a test to see if I could participate in ELP.  “ELP” stood for Enhanced Learning Program.  The test I took was, I later learned, an IQ test.  I have no clue what my intelligence quotient is, but I do know I was asked to join the ELP program.  I feel kind of bad because I “passed” the test partially based on a tip from Cynthia who was leaving the testing room as I entered.  Cynthia told me to look at the clock in the mirror.  There were a number of questions that required calculating of time that was helped by seeing a clock, even if it was seeing the clock in reverse.  I was allowed into ELP and Cynthia was not, and I honestly would not have thought to look in the mirror if she hadn’t suggested it to me.  I’m not convinced that utilizing that mirror wasn’t part of the test.

Being in ELP meant that once a week or so I left my class to join with the very few other ELP kids for special classes.  We did some crafts.  We must’ve done some other things.  What I remember most, though, is studying architecture.  We were visited by an architect who showed us blueprints of a shopping center he was designing.  He told us that due to Santa Rosa‘s rules about sign height he couldn’t design the Golden Arches to be too obnoxious.

After learning about various kinds of building structures, we walked around Steele Lane Elementary‘s neighborhood picking out the architectural features about which we had learned.  I still do this now, to a degree.  When I go to a new city I like to explore the architecture, or at least go on a architectural-based tour.

I put the Guggenheim together via Lego directions.  Next, I’m going to conquer Falling Water.  Both are Frank Lloyd Wright designs in the Architecture series.

I swear.  True story.

I like guns.  Well, the idea of guns.  They’re dirty and they’re wrong.  But they’re oh-so-attractive.  So attractive that I recently found myself researching the rules to buying a gun in California.  I don’t really want a gun … I don’t think.

Actually, I already have a gun.  A gun made out of Lego bricks.  I love Lego and I’m fascinated with guns so this seemed like a natural thing for me to get.  I ordered my Desert Eagle from Brick Gun a few years ago.  I’d tried to put it together but fucked up by mixing up two parts, and had given up for a while.  I didn’t have time; I wasn’t in the mood to play.

The Viking encourages me to play.  After we spent some time in Chicago, where there’s a Lego store, my love of Lego was well-cemented.  I custom-made my own Lego people and then made them fuck.  The Viking bought me some Lego kits as well.  I reminded him that I have a gun ready to be assembled.

So a night in the not-too-distant past the Viking began putting the gun together.  I had had some wine.  When we ran out of wine I dipped into the liquor cabinet.  Due to my alcohol habit, the liquor cabinet tends to contain only liquors used for cooking.  I’m not so far gone into said alcohol habit that I need to drink booze meant for cooking.  I am, however, so far into said alcohol habit that when the Viking was assembling a gun out of Lego bricks I decided to drink the Mason jarred corn whiskey.

Despite appearances, the corn whiskey is not actually moonshine.  It was purchased in a liquor store, or maybe a BevMo, many years ago.  The Ex bought it back before he was the Ex.  We broke up in 2007, and he moved out, taking the jar o’ booze with him.  Then, two years later, when he and his stupid (as in unintelligent and lame) girlfriend moved in, he brought it with him.  When, after the stupid girlfriend attacked me and they moved out, the Ex forgot his booze in his haste to get him and his crap (that includes the stupid girlfriend) out of the place.

The Ex was a bourbon drinker.  He may still be, but I neither know nor care.  Back when we were together he was a bourbon drinker.  His everyday drink was Maker’s Mark, but he would drink fancier – and more expensive – bourbons on special occasions.  As bourbon is whiskey, he also tried out various whiskeys in his drinking career.  On a whim he bought whiskey that was marketed to look like moonshine including being “bottled” in Mason jars.  He tried some and immediately declared that it was horrible, and then moved with it on at least two occasions.

I poured myself a shot of the corn whiskey.  I’d already been drinking some so it was easy to ignore the rubbing alcohol smell of the whiskey as I tossed it down my gullet. I poured the Viking a shot.  He seemed to think it wasn’t so bad.  He continued working on the gun.  I poured him another shot.  We had a few shots … that weren’t so terrible.

It took a while for the drunken Viking to assemble the gun because the Brick Gun company’s directions are not nearly as clear as Lego’s directions.  Lego, however, does not endorse Brick Gun’s products in any way.

Finally, the Desert Eagle was assembled including all the moving parts.  HOT!  I like guns.

Here is the Viking looking all crazed with a gun in his hand.  He looks all dirty and sexy.

I swear.  True story.

I had a date with the Vet to go to the Make-Out Room for a monthly fund raising event for The Rumpus.  I wanted to go to see an acquaintance do a reading, and the Vet volunteered to be my patron.  Apparently when he checked out the event it looked good – to him and his wife.

He texted and asked if it was ok for his wife to come along.  Sure.  I’d never met her, but the Vet had talked about her enough that I certainly knew a few things about her.  She liked big cocks, and she was on a search for “the perfect cock.”  Also, she fucked someone I had fucked.  San Francisco is truly small.

It was the Vet who, from each of our descriptions, figured out that both his wife and I had fucked the same guy.  I wasn’t so sure, though, because he told me that she said he was a premature ejaculator.  My friend is no premature ejaculator.  But every other thing the Vet said about the guy sounded like my friend.

I asked my friend.  He assured me he did not ejaculate prematurely.  He said the sex wasn’t particularly hot, but they fucked for at least ten minutes.

When informed of my friend’s description of the fucking, the Vet’s wife laughed.  She said she wished it had been ten minutes of fucking.  She said he hadn’t bothered to take her to dinner when she said she was hungry.  That last part definitely sounded like him; he’s generally pretty cheap.

So I wanted to meet the woman who had an interesting encounter with a friend.  A friend, by the way, I’ve decided not to fuck again.  It wasn’t the discrepancy with Mrs. Vet’s story, it was so many other things.  For instance, he creeped out a girl I was fucking by staring at her, but only when I wasn’t in the room.  Also, I find his cheapness supremely unattractive.  He gets laid plenty anyway.

The Vet told me that not only would Mrs. Vet be going, but also her date.  They’re like that, fucking other people and all.

He called ahead and asked if we should meet at the Make-Out Room or if they could come in.  My place wasn’t too, too messy, and I had some vodka so I could offer them refreshments, so I told them to come in.

In my front door walked four people, the Vet, Mrs. Vet, Mrs. Vet’s date, and another woman.  Introductions were made all around and I went to work making drinks for my guests.  The Vet had been to my home before and wanted to show off my place to his friends.  He asked if he could take his wife’s date upstairs to the bedroom.

I thought it was a little odd, but then realized the Vet wanted to show Mrs. Vet’s date the Drawer O’ Sex.  Sure, no problem.  I’m glad to show off my pervyness, obviously.

The Vet returned from the bedroom with the njoy Pure Wand.  It was the Vet who introduced me to the Pure Wand.  He let me borrow his.  I loved it so much that the Viking bought me one for my birthday.  Mrs. Vet, for whom the Vet’s Pure Wand was intended, was apparently intimidated by it and didn’t miss it when it was in my possession.  When my Pure Wand was in front of her she looked scared.  She hefted its weight and showed it to everyone assembled.

With our conversation properly in the sexual realm and our drinks drunk, we made our way to the Make-Out Room.  The Vet got drinks while we got a table.  The place was packed so finding a place to stand next to a table was no small feat.  Mrs. Vet and her date started making out pretty much immediately.  I suppose it was appropriate considering the moniker of the venue.

The Vet introduced me to his friend, a woman he had met through OkCupid.  I had also met the Vet through OkCupid; that site is very good to him.  The woman was tall and British.  After just a bit of conversation I realized who she was.  She was the woman who had fucked an OkCupid guy who I had also fucked.  Other than the Vet, that is.

In our little group of three women and two men we had quite a few interesting fuck connections.  The Vet had fucked all three women.  I had fucked three men who had also fucked either Mrs. Vet or the Brit, or both.  Mrs. Vet had fucked both men (I assume).  The men hadn’t fucked each other and none women had fucked any of the other women.

Yet.

[To be continued.]

I swear.  True story.

I’ve been going to what was then called Gay Day Parades since I was probably five or so.  My mother came out as a lesbian when I was four.  We then proceeded to go to “gay” events.  We went to pride parades and Equal Rights Amendment marches.  In my little brain, everything my mother took me to was “gay.”  At one ERA march someone asked me if I was for equal rights for women.  I said that no, I wasn’t into gay stuff.  Oops.  I was a kid, forgive me.

When I was a kid we lived in Santa Rosa and drove down to San Francisco for Gay Day Parades.  Santa Rosa suffers from being too close to San Francisco, and living in its shadow.  I learned this as a child when I had to take Greyhound buses between my mother’s in Santa Rosa, and my father’s in Redding (yes, you should feel sorry for me).  There were no direct routes between Santa Rosa and Redding because San Francisco was so close.  I usually went from Santa Rosa to Vallejo and then changed buses to go on to Redding.  I did this alone, and at the age of seven or eight.  These days parents barely let their kids out of their sight; I was alone on buses and in bus stations when I was under ten.

Once I changed buses in San Francisco.  That was the first time I saw a syringe in person.  It was on the street.  I was scared.  I must’ve told my mother how freaked I was, because I never again took a Greyhound through San Francisco.

Having lived in San Francisco for the last ten years, I’ve mostly avoided the Pride Celebrations because I know what’s going on and because crowds don’t do all that much for me.  But this year, with the prospect of moving away from San Francisco meant I should do the parade and other things that can only be done here.  (Though Chicago also had its Pride Celebration this weekend.)  Also, the Viking had never been to any Pride Parade.

Just before I moved away from Pasadena, back in January 1997, I went to the Tournament of Roses Parade.  I had lived in the San Gabriel Valley since 1990, and had done the parade route, along Colorado Boulevard, on a number of occasions.  The parade route thing meant walking around, people watching, drinking, and smoking pot, all between about 11pm and 4am.  By the time the parade came around I had usually walked home and crashed.  I would then watch the parade on tv.  However, with the prospect of moving away from Pasadena, I finally woke up early enough to attend a parade.  That was back when the Ex and I first got together so we were willing to wake up early for each other.  Also, he lived much closer to the Rose Parade route than did I at the time.

So with the Viking about to move from San Francisco, the putative gay capital of (at least) the US (if not the world), I figured it was my place to take him to the parade.  We got a ride with a friend who was to be in the parade, and then walked to the parade route, on Market Street.

We walked along the south side of Market Street, watching the parade.  Lots of local politicians.  Lots of animal-centric and -friendly organizations.  The Viking asked me what the deal was with all the animal stuff, and I explained that animal are like children to the gays.  I also pointed out that I was silly and obsessive about my animals, and that this is the kind of shit that happens when people don’t have kids.  Kind of like me with my animals.

On our walk we saw some interesting people.  We saw some families, including kids the age I was when I first began going to such parades, which I really appreciated.  We saw a shirtless blond guy wearing not only a belt and (rainbow) suspenders, but also a gas mask, because clearly he thought safety should be first.  He also had blond chest hair.  He was creepy enough that I requested the Viking and I move on, well away from him.  He wasn’t looking for conversation, for sure, but if I wanted to take a photo, I would have had to at least request such.

I decided I’d take no photos at the parade.  For the most part, the people who wanted to be seen, wanted to really be seen.  I have no interest taking pictures of people who want their pictures taken too much.

So, in the spirit of Pride 2010, I present my Gay Pride Lego people:

I love Lego. I love ‘em a lot. I also love – and find political and personally necessary – open gay pride.  I probably said this already, but I’d love, love, LOVE how open is San Francisco.  I know enough about Chicago to know that it, too, is a gay-friendly city.  I have no interest in living in a city that’s otherwise.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Chicago:  June 20, 2010."]

It was my last day in Chicago.  The day was bittersweet because the Viking and I would have to part ways.  He was coming home in three days anyway, but we would miss each other nonetheless.  We’re goofy like that.  He’ll get tired of me soon enough.

I decided on the trip that I don’t like king-size beds.  They are way too big for me.  If I’m sleeping in the same bed as someone chances are it’s because I want to share a bed.  A king bed makes it feel like I’m in the bed alone, which is fine, but only when I’m in bed alone.  When I share a bed with someone I want to be able to reach out and actually find a body.  (Preferably a live one.)  I’m not much of a cuddler, but I still want to be able to feel a body if I’m choosing to share a bed.

I packed my suitcase.  We had strewn our clothes about the room, and the toys had been put to use.  It was nice that the Viking was staying in the room so if I forgot anything he could bring it home.  I didn’t forget anything in my huge suitcase.  I was required to overpack because of the size of my suitcase.  The Ex and I had bought a set of luggage before we went to Thailand the first time.  When the Ex moved out he took the smaller pieces and left me the largest piece.  Now, unless it’s just a quick jaunt, the only suitcase I have has to be filled.  For this trip, the rope and toys took up the space, but the bag has to be checked because of the size.

These days the stupid-ass airlines charging for checking even one bag is just bullshit.  When I arrived in our hotel room and opened my suitcase, I noticed the contents had been rearranged; the flogger was on top whereas it had been under my clothes when I packed.  On top of everything was a “NOTIFICATION OF INSPECTION (NOI).”  Apparently if I had any prohibited items they were turned over to the proper authorities.  I’m glad they don’t think sex toys are “Hazardous Materials.”

After packing, the Viking and I went out in search of food and shopping.  We ate at Big Bowl, which apparently prides itself on using seasonal, local produce.  Yay, I don’t have to feel like I’m compromising my inner hippie in the Midwest.  Lunch was really quite good for a somewhat gimmicky (albeit small) chain restaurant.

Then we went shopping.  I’m not a big shopper.  I mostly get annoyed, and when it comes to shopping for intimate apparel, depressed.  The Viking wanted to go bra shopping with me, I think mostly because he wanted to see my boobies in a different setting, but I didn’t want to do that on vacation.  Vacations, after all, are supposed to be fun, not demoralizing.

Chicago has one of just a few of the Lego® stores on earth.  We walked into one of those vertical urban shopping malls and climbed a few escalators.  We knew we were close when in the well of the escalators there were figures made out of Lego blocks.  There was a giant spider and a big rat, made out of Lego bricks.  We went into the store, where there were many, many different sets.  There was also an area where individual blocks could be purchased individually.  While the individual bricks looked pretty, I couldn’t think of what to make with them.  I want to make some fun, funky jewelry with Lego blocks.

The Viking bought me a couple of the sets from the Architecture series. I’m going to have a lot of fun putting these together.  I really like Lego.  I’m a childish nerd.

There were stations where one could put together sets of three Lego people.  Their headgear, heads/faces, torsos, legs, and up to two accessories could be picked individually.  I had an idea considering Pride was coming up, so I got a set of three custom people.

We took our booty back to the room and fit the Lego sets into my luggage.  The Viking escorted me all the way to the airport, which was very much appreciated considering Chicago train stations have stairs, not escalators.  It would have been very difficult for me to carry my heavy-as-shit suitcase.

After the Viking dropped me off I went to my gate.  Luckily, close by was a bar where I had a couple of drinks.  While drinking them I began to play Plants vs. Zombies.  Then, as I entered the gate area I saw someone I know.  Someone I know from San Francisco.  It’s a small, small world.

We talked, but unfortunately we weren’t seated near each other, and the good ol’ days of easily being able to change seats are over.  But my friend texted me before take off and offered to buy me a drink.  Thank you very much.

The entire flight passed very quickly because I was killing zombies the whole time.  Once at home I saw that my baggage had again been inspected.  This time my Hitachi Magic Wand had been left on top of the other suitcase contents.

I had a great time in Chicago.  It’s a nice place to visit.  Would I want to live there?

I swear.  True story.

This is a car.  This is a car on meth.  There is no fucking way other than speed that anyone would have the time, energy, and meticulous attention to detail that created the “decorations” on this car.  There are shells, both sea- and ammunition.  There are skulls – animal, “human,” real, and fake.  Dolls and doll parts have been utilized in unspeakable (and unwritable) ways.

This car was difficult not to notice, and it definitely runs because I only saw it on the Mission/Bernal Heights border that one day.

San Francisco has its share of stupid-looking cars.  For the most part I don’t take photos of the vehicles because I don’t want to chance the cars’ owners seeing me take ‘em.  I don’t want the “artists” to think that I’m either 1) appreciating their “artistry,” or 2) – which is much more likely – making fun of their stupidity.  The artisan of this fine rolling behemoth of modern art was nowhere around when I snapped these rather mediocre photos.  I’m glad, because I certainly would not want to have to engage in conversation with anyone who would do this to a car.

Conversation would involve me asking how long it took and asking about various details, all whilst trying to keep a straight face.  I would have needed to get away quickly so as not to laugh.  Because someone who would do this to a car may not understand why his hard work wasn’t truly appreciated.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "The Day of Fuck (Cock No. 2)."]

Cock No. 3 was Jules Verne.  No, not the writer of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, but nonetheless that’s the nickname this one’s gotten.  We had gone out once before.  We met at Velvet Cantina, a Mexican restaurant/bar in the Mission.  It seemed to be a bit of a bridge and tunnel crowd, but after a couple of strong margaritas and finally getting a table it wasn’t so bad.  We had fun even though we didn’t get around to getting me a new tattoo.  (Damn San Francisco tattoo parlors for not being open late-night!)

On the Day of Fuck Jules Verne picked me up and we went to dim sum.  I hadn’t had dim sum since I dated Ms. Absinthe, and she had a slight allergy to shrimp so we could have very few of the dishes.  She did, however, introduce me to chicken feet.  Yum.  I told Jules Verne I liked chicken feet on the drive over.  He agreed to try them, but I could tell he thought I was a little gross.  He did try the chicken feet, barely.  Lucky me, I got to eat the majority of them.

Lunch was very nice, though not without its problems.  Jules Verne’s credit card was declined so we had to wait while he called the card company.  Apparently the card, which was in his hand, had been stolen.  After that was resolved, we went to the parking garage to get his car, stopping on the way to pay for parking at a machine.  The machine ate the parking ticket, so we had to wait for an attendant to open up the machine to retrieve it.

Jules Verne was afraid to do anything else for fear that something would go wrong, again.  We drove to his house in the Oakland Hills.  Well, his parents’ house.  His parents’ house that was well-stocked with wine.  The parents, conveniently, weren’t home.  The day was gorgeous so Jules Verne and I sat on the patio sipping wine and enjoying the view.

Of course we got to talking about sex.  Of course.  A large duffel bag appeared from which he pulled a huge dildo.  Huge, not “super” at all, SUPER.  I’m not sure if he asked, but I told him I could take it.  Perhaps I can, but that was not for the Day of Fuck.

What the huge dildo in Jules Verne’s possession told me was that he was a size queen.  No, he’s not a queen.  But he likes to see big things going in pussies.  Isn’t that was a lot of porn is all about anyway?  Well, he clearly wanted to see it live.

That Jules Verne and I were going to fuck eventually became inevitable.  I wanted to go upstairs and fuck but he refused me.  What?!  I could tell he wanted to fuck me, I was offering myself to him, I was wanting his cock in me, so why was I being refused, dammit?  He was worried the maid would show up.  Uh, we’ll just tell her not to clean the room in which we’re fucking.

Only “maid” wasn’t quite the right term for her.  She was apparently Jules Verne’s nanny when he was a kid so he felt an affinity to her as a child for a mother.  He wanted to keep the illusion between them that he was not a sexual being.  Fine, whatever, but I wanted to fuck.

Into the car to drive back across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco.  To my building where my neighbors’ apartment was still an option for fucking.  I deposited him there and then had to, for the second time of the day, go to my apartment for my Magic Wand, the Pure Wand, lube, and condoms.  And for the second time of the day it was clear that I needed a Doctor of Fuck bag always at the ready.

For the next couple of hours Jules Verne fucked me in my pussy and ass with his cock, the Pure Wand, and his hand.  I lost track of where went what and I didn’t care because it all felt good.  It was clear that both Jules Verne and I liked fucking pretty damn hard.

At one point both of us could tell that I was going to squirt or gush or whatever – I was going to female ejaculate.  And I really wanted to, I did, but I was on my neighbors’ bed and I was worried about the state of their bedding.  Worrying does not a huge orgasm make.  By the time I decided, “Fuck it, I’ll wash everything anyway,” it was too late, the moment had passed.

My pussy still felt fucking great.  We were having a lot of fun … until I looked at the clock.  Fuck, it was late.  I had another date that night, and I don’t like to spring a threesome on a guy without warning, so Jules Verne had to go.

I sent Jules Verne on his way and realized my pussy was quite sore.  I was a bit worried, as the next fuck of the day was the Russian.  The Russian has a delightfully huge cock …

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.