Random Rim Jobs

[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 4)."]

Another thing I learned well into our “relationship” was that Jules Verne was a Republican.  Ok, I can deal with that, maybe even have some lively discussions.  When I was growing up, my father was a Democrat and my step-mother was a Republican, so they agreed to not to discuss politics too much.  I was very happy when I learned that my step-mother switched to the Democratic Party when the brouhaha over Bill Clinton getting his cock sucked occurred.  My step-mother didn’t see why anyone gave a shit.  My step-mother, if she weren’t my step-mother, would be a pretty cool person.

So when Jules Verne reminded me that he was a Republican after I said something scathing about a member of the Party, I was hardly surprised or disturbed.  However, I was completely nonplussed when he told me that he was so much of a Republican that he worked for George W. Bush and that he thought George W. Bush was smart.  “Smart?  Really?  He’s smart?  Intelligent?  He couldn’t get into law school in Texas, where his family had significant influence.”

To which Jules Verne responded that W had a great memory, that he always remembered the names of everyone he encountered.  That is certainly a skill I don’t have, but I did get into law school in the state where I grew up, even if my family didn’t have any influence.  True, not the best law school …

I tried to forget these things when Jules Verne and I hung out.  We’d drink.  We’d fuck.  Usually pretty dirty.  We had a lot of fun, including one incident of road head on the Bay Bridge when he was driving me home from his parents’ place in Piedmont.

Then, when I was planning a trip to Chicago, he volunteered to take care of Isis.  I didn’t ask, he volunteered.  He had met her, and saw that she was a very sweet dog.  He also missed his own dog, the custody of which he shared with an ex-girlfriend who lived on the East Coast.  He took very good care of her, and was actually very happy to do so.  A guy who loves dogs gets a lot of points in my book.  Even if he does think George W. Bush is smart.

He bought me an especially nice birthday present, an njoy Eleven.  The store clerk asked me if I thought I could handle it.  I laughed and assured her that I could.  And I can.  The Eleven and I get along very well.  (I may write a post about that toy some day.)

The same day he bought a pussy pump.  To use with me (and other chicks I assumed).  Sure, I’m willing to have my pussy subjected to all sorts of things.  Jules Verne liked seeing pussies do various things, usually of the insertion variety, but if he wanted to see my pussy lips get all puffed up, I was game.  We eventually used it.  It felt interesting to me, but not necessarily all that exciting.  Maybe I’ll have to try again ….

Recently Jules Verne Moved to Manhattan.  He (his parents) have a place just off Central Park in what I’m told (by him) is a very exclusive building – celebrities with penthouses and shit.  So because he was moving and I was moving we had a last hurrah.  Then he came back to the Bay Area and I hadn’t yet moved, we did it again.  Then, because he was collecting his dog and visiting his family, and I still hadn’t moved, we did it again.

He has a nice, thick cock, and he’s interesting.  He says I’m a crazy chick, but in a good way.  Without asking too many questions, I took that as a compliment.  I think he meant that I liked fucking but my fucking isn’t a means to “snag” a guy.  I’ve no interest in being in a traditional relationship with a 25-year-old.  Or any other age for that matter.

To be continued ….  The Vet, Charles, and that guy for whom I don’t yet have a nickname to follow.

I swear.  True story.

I’m ready to move.  READY.  I’ve lived in my apartment nearly seven years and in San Francisco for ten.  It is time to move the fuck on.

I look around my apartment and see things I’m tired of seeing.  I look around San Francisco and see things I’ve been seeing for ten years.  I like what I see for the most part, and it will be great to visit a city I know so well, but I’m ready to say I’m from San Francisco rather than I live in San Francisco.

I’m not “from” San Francisco, but that’s what I’ll say when people ask once I’ve moved.  It’s certainly easier to say I’m from San Francisco than that I’m from all over California, that I’ve lived in northern California, southern California, thankfully not central California.

I have senioritis.  You know that feeling, when you can see the light at the end of the tunnel and you want to get there already.  I want to move already.  Change will be very welcome in my life.  This year started off kind of shitty and has gotten better and better and better.  I feel like if I stay here things will only stagnate, and I want them to continue to get better.

The last time I had senioritis so badly I was a senior – in high school.  At the end of my sophomore year my guidance counselor sat down with my father and me and told me there was a chance I could graduate early if I wanted to do so.  Did I!

I had heard about people at my high school graduating a semester early, which is what I hoped for.  However, because my high school had very few requirements for graduation, including only three years of English, and because I had begun taking high school-level classes in junior high, I was told I could graduate a full year before my classmates.

Fuck yeah!  I would have to jump through a few hoops, but I could do it.  I had to get special permission to sign up for classes that were normally only open to seniors.  My guidance counselor took care of that.  And because there were only so many class periods in a day, I had to put in time to get additional units at the continuation high school in my district.

On Wednesday nights my father drove me to the continuation high school.  For those not in the know, a “continuation” high school is for the pregnant girls, the behavior problems, and those with learning disabilities.  It’s a last step before dropping out for most of the students who go.  On Wednesday nights the local continuation high school had supervised study that allowed students to catch up on classwork.

I was to earn a few units on the Wednesday nights, and take a full course of classes during school days, and I could graduate a year early.  I could do that.  The first few Wednesday evenings, the supervising teacher had me read stories and answer comprehension questions.  She always seemed surprised when I finished, and usually let me go before the study period was over because I had completed all my work.

The work was mindless and silly, but I wanted to do whatever it took to graduate early.  After a few Wednesdays of attendance, the supervising teacher didn’t have any work left for me to do; I had done everything that was normally given to students who needed extra units.  The teacher asked me to act as a tutor and help any of the other students who needed it.  Whatever it took, I did.  Finally, the teacher made it clear that I was wasting my time, and set me free, with more units than I had requested or needed for the early graduation.  Thankyouverymuch.

With that cushion of units at my disposal I proceeded to purposefully fail a math class that I didn’t need to graduate and that was more work than I was willing to put in.  The last semester of high school I did the bare minimum of work.

I moved out of my parents’ (father and step-mother) house during my last semester of high school, in March of 1990, when I was 16.  Some time during that final semester my parents got a call indicating I was “in danger of not graduating.”  I heard through DJ that my parents got the call, as I had no interest in talking to them during that time.

I didn’t give a shit that I was in danger of not graduating, because even if I didn’t graduate then, a year early, I could take summer school, or attend another semester, and I still would have graduated early.  The teachers looked at me with a wise pity, like they had seen it all before – the formerly good student who was just done.

I still don’t know what my final grades were, but I did graduate from high school a year early.  Literally the day after I graduated I moved from the small suburban Sacramento town to the San Gabriel Valley in southern California.  DJ helped me with that.

I can’t say this bout of senioritis is as difficult at the one when I was 16 since I now have a bit more maturity.  Just a bit.

I swear.  True story.

This is the Russian’s bathroom.  The Russian has other things going for him, for sure.  Otherwise, the first time I saw this bathroom I’d've gone running – far, far away.

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.

4:25 A.M.

Beth called me at something like 2:30 and now I can’t sleep.  So I smoked some pot.  Henry didn’t call me all day.  Whenever he says maybe about something or even just asks I always take it to mean a lot more than it is.  You would think I would learn but not I’m totally stupid.  He usually calls me every day though.  I know the reason I get hopeful – he calls when I think he won’t and at odd times sometimes.  It’s like when he wants to talk to me, he calls me – simple, to the point, easy one (good) dimensional.  I’m just used to the games – the first one to call is the “weak one.”  He’s so simple.  I don’t mean simple-minded though.  For some reason, in my mind I’m thinking that this could  bad by being boring.  But it’s so good.  Girls – including myself – play too many games.  Henry said that girls are so dramatic and make a big deal out of everything.  So I asked him if I do that and he said no.  Though I could have and he was just being nice by saying no so I pushed it and he still said no really I don’t.  Yea.  That was his way of complimenting me.  I had to coerce it out of him.  I think this is how most boys are – you just have to read into what they do say to take it to mean exactly what they don’t say.  I want to by lying on my bed naked with just my butt covered while I’m on my stomach and he comes from behind and runs his hands up my waist and kisses the small of my back.  And then moves slowly up my back to my neck and my mouth.  And I love to kiss his soft gentle mouth.  While his hands are just touching my waist and m y back as I start to pull over to face him and the blanket is still between us and his hands are still around me and his mouth is still on mine.  And I want so much to be close to him to smell him to feel his heat at my chest closer and he is so warm and then I move up above him and put my arms on his shoulders and my knees above his hips and shift over on top of him.  Then I kiss him, kiss him (curse him for not shaving) kiss his neck unbutton his shirt feel his chest through his clothes then kiss it and take the shirt off of him.  Then kiss and nibble his arms and shoulders.  [Thought – what if he has a lot of pimples and hair?  What will I do differently what will I do the same?]  And his mouth is so soft and warm and wet.  It tastes so wonderful like a man, like Henry.  Then I lay down.

It’s five in the fucking morning.  Why didn’t Henry call.  I’m past thinking I did something wrong in our last conversation ’cause if I did something wrong I would’ve done it already before that conversation.  People are going to work – sure is early.  I want to start shaving my thighs again for the season.  Basically so I can touch them myself.  But it would be nice to hear a compliment from someone (Henry) as to how soft they are.  Oh well.  I can just remember the way his hands felt – he would be gentle and then press harder (I think).  We were talking about sexiness in guys and what makes that way and I almost told him that the way he moved and acted – so cool – made him sexy but I didn’t cause I didn’t want to embarrass myself.  Fuck – it’s getting light I have to get up soon.  Nightie night.

This looks just lovely.  Those are lovely breasts that gravity hasn’t had much of a chance to mistreat.  Not that gravity is a cruel bitch or anything.  But she is.  Always pulling.  Keeping our feet on the ground.  And dragging down our soft bits.

This lovely lady, however, has only had the benefits of gravity so far in her life.  Good for her.  I hope she realizes what she has now, before it’s gone.  Or at least closer to the ground.

All those women who say they posed new when their bodies were looking their best?  Yeah, I get it.  I certainly have never had a nude posing-worthy body, but I wish I knew what I had when I had it.  When I was a size 7 I thought I was fat.  Silly me.  I always thought I was fat, probably because I thought I looked like my mother, who was fat, and because I didn’t look like my sister or my step-sister, who were both very skinny.

While I wish I knew what I had when I had it, I’m glad I have what I have now, even if it’s not perfect.  Not even close to perfect.  I have a funky toenail and flat feet; I miss shaving a few hairs near each ankle bone most of the time; I have a biopsy scar on one calf and a 1990s “tribal” tattoo on the other; I have shitty knees that hurt more when I’m going downhill than up; my thighs are … not slim, but they are strong; I have more body hair than I’d like; my stomach isn’t flat; my hips aren’t small; my breasts aren’t as perky as I’d like; my arms are not well defined; I have a big nose; I have acne; my hair is almost too thick (yes, I know this is one of those complaints for which some will hate me); I require corrective lenses; I grind my teeth.  Not even close to perfect.  But I’m me.

So I’m looking forward to my 37th year.  Happy birthday to me.

I swear.  True story.

I have been to one frat party. One was plenty.

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.

2:06AM

Well, this thing with Laura and Steve – I don’t know he doesn’t talk very much ’cause he’s so damn shy he’s very cute and sweet though Laura kept talking to Henry she said it was because (she also stared at him) he looked so much like Eric one of her first boyfriends.  She better not.  He better not.  Oh shit now I’m nervous.  Oh shit.  What if he likes her?  Oh, but he can’t can he?  He likes me.  Oh now I’m going to cry.  Laura left very abruptly – she said it was because the conversation wasn’t going very well and she say Steve give Henry a look like, “Oh got I don’t want to be here.”  So she left – didn’t even have me walk out to make sure she got in her car alright.  Then Henry left right away – too depressing.  But then he called me when he got home – he likes me and he more officially asked me out for the 20th to see Duchess de Sade.  Not I’m shitting about what I should wear.  He always looks like he got dressed to come over here – how sweet.  I don’t want to look like I get too dressed up but I’ve been looking like a scum.  But today I wasn’t wearing black and/or white – I have/had navy blue on.  Showed him my photo album but wouldn’t let him see pictures of Erica – I’m not quite sure why.  Just not yet.  Maybe when and if we ever have sex.  Way after – maybe never.  Not never to the sex part never to the Erica part.  She’s out of my life – her choice, not mine – I don’t know where she’s at she knows where I am.

3:54 PM

I called up Laura to tell her I think I’m losing interest in Henry.  I think I’ll just turn him over to her.  No, I’m too selfish.  Actually, I’m just bored and I don’t like moving this slowly.  Should I just jump him?  And his friend Steve is so cute – how Henry looked to me at first.  Now Henry’s lost a lot of his innocence in my eyes at least.  Maybe I’m fickle and he thought I would be so he was testing me.  As soon as I see him again maybe.  I saw the cutest girl – poo – just tried to call Rachel – she was/is at work at Pistol Pete’s Pizza.  How cute.  Anyway, I saw a really cute girl when I was walking home from the bus stop.  She was probably a junior high student.  What do I have for the young ones?  Well, the ones who at least look young.  Now it’s time for me to look for others.  I like the excitement of wondering if a girl would like girls.  Humm.  I need to shave.  I need to get another job.  I miss the curves of a female body.  Well, maybe I’m just horny.  And Laura said she and Henry connected because both of their mothers have blue Ford Tauruses.  But Henry’s mom’s is a year newer and has a much better stereo.  I don’t think Henry’s family has been hurting for money.  It was so cute how little Steve was nervous.  Oh, what is it about the baby faces?  I want to call Steve with the pretense of asking about Laura and then slyly moving in so he won’t even know it.