Random Rim Jobs
I swear. True story.Your Seat, Milady (1)
Posted on October 08, 2011The Viking texted me that he had something for my sweet tooth. My sweet tooth tends to rear its ugly head well after dinner, but before bed. It’s the time I had dessert when I was a kid and it’s when I tend to crave sweet things.
Sometimes fruit will satisfy it, and when there’s nothing sugary sweet in the house I have to settle for fruit. I love fruit and fruit is, you know, healthy and shit, so that’s not such a bad thing, but sometimes I want something fucking rich and sugary and not at all healthy.
That night he came home with three very sweet, very moist, very rich cupcakes. They were so rich we didn’t finish them that night, and I knew they were too tasty for me to try to pretend that they were healthy. I was pretty satisfied, but the cupcakes were not all the Viking had planned for that weekend.
Before he came home with the cupcakes on Friday he let me know that on Saturday I would be required to be freshly showered and naked but for a blindfold by 7pm.
I had no idea what he was planning. He had teased on Friday that he had invited five big black guys over to have their way with me, but I knew the Viking didn’t know five guys he could or would invite over for such things; I had no clue if the Viking knew any black guys.
Besides, I think the Viking knew my thing about the “big black guy” bullshit and wouldn’t have planned such a party. Not all black guys have big cocks. Not all black guys are big dudes. The objectification of black men as “bulls” and “studs” is lame, and not sexy to me. Sure, there are some black guys – as there are white guys and brown guys and all the other color guys – I find hot, but I don’t find them so because of the color of their skin.
I did begin to worry that the Viking had invited someone or someones over though. He knows I wouldn’t mind entertaining a small group of guys … in any ways I could. However, our place was not ready for company; I need to be able to prepare for guests, something the Viking knows.
So I was pretty sure I wasn’t to entertain a gang for a bang, but the Viking was most definitely planning something. He said that while I was showering and donning the blindfold that he’d be out “for supplies.” What kind of supplies, I had no fucking idea.
I like surprises, and the Viking knows it. I was having fun guessing and he was having fun deflecting my guesses. I didn’t want to know; I wanted whatever it was to be a surprise. He could have told me where my surprise was hidden – if it was a thing that could be hidden – and I still would have waited for him to spring it on me because a lot of the fun of surprises is the reveal.
On Saturday, per usual, we got up early – for me – and made our way to Lincoln Park for the Green City Market where we picked up our share of goods from “our” farm. I know winter’s coming (No, that’s not just for you “Game of Thrones” fans.) but I’ve really enjoyed the local produce this spring and summer. We’re supposed to enjoy it into the fall. I’m trying not to think about the winter when anything local will be things that can be “put up,” like winter squash and root vegetables. The thought of root cellars is still fucking foreign to me.
After we figured out that everyone else brought their dogs – whether well behaved or not – to the farmers market we started bringing Isis – who is very well behaved. It was nice to give all of us (except for poor Joaquin) an outing where we all felt like we got something – Isis, new smells and a literal roll in the grass, and us, produce to eat during the week.
Isis, however, absolutely hates rain. She doesn’t like the feeling of the wet hitting her skin, something that happens with anything more than the lightest mist of a drizzle. Further, she fears, to the point of hiding in the guest room, thunder. Thunder (and lightning) often accompanies rain here in Chicago. Summer thunder storms are common I’ve been told. I’ve also been told that this year’s summer thunder storms were more plentiful than usual, something I’m not sure is true considering most people talk about whether only insofar as their short-term memory can access it.
That Saturday it looked like it could rain any second and we could hear thunder in the distance so we left Isis at home. It wasn’t cold, but we were glad we brought our umbrellas so at least our heads could stay dry.
To be continued ….
I swear. True story.
Dream Journal: 5/13/11
Posted on September 17, 2011In a wooded suburb. Strange shit keeps happening. I’m suspected and the only way to prove my innocence is to catch the culprit.
But it’s scary and dangerous. [I woke up with my heart racing and felt very scared. For a little while I tried not to go back to sleep so I wouldn't go into that dream again.]
__________
Expedition in snow and ice. At base there’s a fat woman living alone. If I complete a task she’ll be able to leave.
The task involves making my way through an ice cave from bottom left to top right. Repeatedly I note that I’m wearing the wrong shoes – a kind of brogue – for the task at hand. Every time I fall I have to go back to the beginning.
There is a hole, the bottom of which drops out on an irregular basis, down which items fall. If I can grab them before the bottom dorps out I can keep them.
The items are mind and include a pair of shoes – I lose one of a heeled Mary Jane.
Still snow and ice but another room where there are people in various states of dying and starving.
I end up negotiating for some of the healthier people’s escape; others know they’re gonna die and their very skinny and weak.
With the task done, I’m back with the fat woman whom I tell she can now leave. Seems she might have been taking care of Isis.
I look down and see Joaquin dipping his paw into a pitcher of tea the woman had made and put on the floor.
It Seemed Promising (Part 4)
Posted on August 16, 2011[Continued from "It Seemed Promising (Part 3)."]
He was not only manhandling me, someone who had consented to it, but he was being mean to his dogs. He argued that taking them out every 12 hours was sufficient. I’ve seen a dog after an 8-hour day of being inside really, really need to go to the bathroom; 12 hours was ridiculous unless they were dehydrated. I told him that unless he took his dogs out I was leaving.
He was incredulous. I wasn’t kidding. Even if a guy is slapping me around I have to know he’s a nice guy. I think he thought I’d change my mind. I did not. I’m stubborn.
Then, as if it was his idea, he told me to get the fuck out. He told me he’d give me $50 for a cab. Stupidly, I refused his money and asked that he just point me in a direction where I’d be able to catch a cab easily. I was used to San Francisco, where it can be very difficult to catch a cab in most parts of town; Chicago has plenty of cabs.
I might have been crying at that point. The plight of his dogs – especially the old one – had gotten to me. There’s a reason I don’t have fun outings to animal shelters, or any outings at all to animal shelters.
I was able to get a cab right in front of his building. No, he didn’t bother making sure. I told the cab driver my address and began to sob. The cab driver kept wanting to know if I was ok. In that horrible, high-pitched crying voice that all women have, I tried to assure him that I was find.
I texted the Viking that I was on my way home and not in the best shape. By the time the cab pulled up in front of our building the Viking was outside with Isis waiting for me.
The cab driver told me I didn’t have to pay. I said I wanted to pay but that I only had $4. I gave him the $4 but had forgotten about my emergency $20. My emergency $20 is in secret spot and with me at all times. The Viking made me begin carrying it when I started meeting people in Chicago if I got into situations just like the one I was in – having to take a cab to get home and away from an asshole.
Ladies, if you want to get out of paying your cab driver, might I suggest crying like a little girl. That was not a serious suggestion. Actually, I wish I had gotten the cabbie’s name so I could pay him properly and tip him accordingly.
The Viking took me inside and listened to my version of the story through my sobs. He’s comforted me a few times when I’ve been a crying mess, and he’s always been perfect with a hand gently rubbing my back and a soothing voice.
I felt especially bad that my date had gone so poorly because his date went well. At the time that was all I could hear, that his date went well. I was happy for him, but at the moment I was really busy feeling sorry for myself.
The next day I felt like an idiot. But also glad that I had left when I did because who knows what could have happened with a guy who had so much trouble turning off his “dom.”
I checked my OkCupid messages and had not one, but two from him. The first:
Look. I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. You might have a different opinion how I treat them, but I won’t have someone tell me I abuse my animals. I take care if take care of my pets. Fuck you and anyone else if they think I dhttp://www.okcupid.com/messages?readmsg=true&threadid=12555606849807570162&folder=1#sendon’t take care of my own. I do my own.
That URL in the middle there was to our OkCupid message exchange; I have no idea why it’s there other than that he was definitely drunk when he sent it, about 20 minutes after I left his place. Clearly I had hit a nerve. If anyone accused me of abusing my pets, I would laugh because I know I don’t, whereas this guy got defensive, kicked what was sure to be a great lay out of his house, and then sent this message. Sadly, I fear his dogs got the worst end of the deal since in his mind he probably felt like they cock-blocked him.
The second message, sent a full hour later, “Congrats on you being a lawyer. It means very little to me.” I don’t know why he thought of that after stewing in his juices for an hour. By that time I wasn’t thinking about him, I was sleeping.
The only reason I thought about him at all was so I could write this. And now I’m done. Good riddance.
The woman I was supposed to meet ended up having to babysit her over-drunk friend. We both had kind of shitty nights. We’re supposed to meet eventually.
I swear. True story.
Photo Lotto 1
Posted on August 06, 2011
Even erotic photos and photos I see on Instagram I like the ones that are good photos first, and interesting subjects second.
This one I don’t actually find all that erotic. Why did I pick it? Because I blindly picked it out of my photo file. This one won.
This photo I like because of the repeating vertical lines cut by whatever the fuck is behind them on the left and the riding crop (?) the woman is holding.
The highlight, of course, is the woman’s crazy fucking back muscles. Yes, of course it’s occurred to me that she may not be biologically XX, but that doesn’t matter because that is a crazy fucking back. Crazy sexy.
I like this photo a lot, though it can be assumed that any photo I post here is one that I like a lot.
I swear. True story.
Not Helpful
Posted on June 18, 2011I get a lot of messages from OkCupid letting me know that one of the nine pictured people has rated me highly. The photo arrays tend to show people of similar ages and similar gender. I’m sure the statistics-heavy folks at OkCupid have figured out how to group people “properly.”
However, every once in a while one of the nine photos will not give me a clue as to the person’s age, gender, looks, or personality. They’re just not helpful. The following I have gathered from several of the “you’ve been chosen” emails I’ve received recently.
I know this guy thinks wearing a kilt is appropriate for formal events. I suppose that does say something about his personality. Also, he has bad hair and possibly a double chin. Is he pregnant? Because he appears to be feeling the baby kick.
This guy has a tattoo he seems to think is cool. He’s wrong. And these days so, so many people have have tattoos that tattoos aren’t all that interesting. They’re certainly not original.
This one is a favorite of mine. What I can tell about this guy is that he knows which bathroom to enter. Otherwise I don’t know what the fuck is going on with this dude. Hell, I don’t even know that he’s a dude.
I care for cars only slightly more than I care for sports. And only because I occasionally need them to get around. I hate, HATE, hate yellow cars. Until my death – or my Alzheimer’s induced dementia – I will not understand why anyone thinks yellow sports cars are … sporty. They just look stupid. Looking under the hood of a car is the equivalent of looking at a guy’s balls and I have no interest in looking at the balls of the guy who posted this as his profile picture.
Yeah, I know this is Jack Black. And I like him in some things. But this image is from Nacho Libre, a movie I’ve not seen, but have heard is really shitty so I’m not clamoring to do so. How the fuck am I supposed to figure out whether I’m attracted to a person based on this photo?
This guy keeps wanting my email address so he can send me a photo. I keep not sending it to him. He keeps being one of those guys who thinks that because I’ve had sex with others that I’ll have sex with him. Still don’t want to meet him.
I don’t even know what the fuck to think of this. Does it mean the person likes modern art? Or that s/he is a moron? Or both? I don’t care, and I don’t care to find out.
Am I supposed to think this guy likes the outdoors? Otherwise I’m not sure what I should be getting out of this profile pic. I don’t care enough to know.
Wow. A truck. This just makes me think of those scenes out of Flirting with Disaster, one of my favorite movies ever. Back in 7th and 8th grade we lived across the street from a truck driver who paid his kids to clean his cab. And he got fined for not stopping at those ubiquitous truck scales.
I don’t even know what that cord/string is. The guy has feet. The guy also has something in his left pocket. Something squarish. He also has something in the crotch area that looks somewhat pointy. But what the fuck is that cord?
Am I supposed to assume the person who wrote the profile is in the center of this photo? Or on the left? Or perhaps the right? I guess I should think that the person who posted this as his/her profile picture is open minded and open sexually. Instead, I think the person is just a new age hippie idiot.
What the fuck?! Is creepy animation supposed to be sexy? Well, it’s not to me. I suppose this profile pic will weed out the weak. Call me weak because I have absolutely no interest.
I swear. True story.
Happy Birthday, DJ
Posted on June 06, 2011June 6 is DJ’s birthday. June 6 is exactly one week after May 30, my birthday.
I met DJ when I was eight. She was one of many “lovers” my mother brought into my life between the time my mother and father divorced, when I was four, and when I moved out of her home, when I was 11.
DJ is 12 years older than me, and 15 years younger than my mother. My mother was 35 and fucking a 20 year old. My mom was a cougar before the term came into fashion.
DJ and I have stayed in touch on and off – mostly on – since I was eight. I lived with her right after I graduated from high school. She’s lived in Arizona for nearly 20 years but we talk on the phone and we’re Facebook friends.
For her birthday this year I got her a vibrating rubber duckie. She’s a big kid who has all sorts of toys, and she’s an adult who likes sex, so the gift will satisfy both sides of her. As a Gemini, of course she has two sides. All us Geminis do.
I talked to DJ to wish her a happy birthday. She was so happy to have made it to 50. Most people lament getting older. Not DJ, who is thrilled to have made it that far.
I’m very lucky to have her in my life.
I swear. True story.
Erythema Nodosum (Part 8)
Posted on May 31, 2011[Continued from "Erythema Nodosum (Part 7)."]
Very shortly after he left, I received a few Facebook messages from him. First:
Here yah gohttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IgfDgkMhXzs&feature=relatedI love wathcing race cars whats your fucking problem you have to insult someones passion
So after saying I did not like to watch cars, he sent me a link to a YouTube video of cars racing? What a fucking idiot. Actually, I have no clue if the link was actually to cars racing because I didn’t bother looking at it.
I insulted his passion? Isn’t someone’s passion something he pursues rather than something he just watches on tv? Because the guy worked in construction and his only car was a pickup truck. As far as I knew he had never been to the Swiss Alps, or Europe at all.
At the same time I read the first message, this one was waiting for me as well:
You really need to get some control of your drugs your wacky ed out. You hate men they sweat well maybe your GAY hurrah another dikeWell now you know why Iam single so SORRY we could’nt make it a nicer evening
Once again, I’d like to make clear that the only drug I was on was potassium iodide and the only side effect (which upon reflection may have been the orange juice I drank with it) was some bumps on my tongue.
The man sweat thing referred to my dislike for cuddling with men because they tend to sweat in their sleep. This was based on my many years of sleeping with men who sweated in their sleep, not a hatred of men. It’s pretty clear that I like fucking men, which I admit doesn’t mean I don’t hate them, but that I have been able to sustain long term relationships with men pretty much does.
A guy who lives in San Francisco pulling the dyke card? Lame. Also lame was his apology. I didn’t fully know why he was single, but his vehemence about a silly pastime clarified it a bit. I later learned from my neighbor, the one who had set us up, that she was pretty sure he hadn’t had sex with anyone but himself for about ten years. I was glad I didn’t know that when we went on the date because just knowing that would have made me very uncomfortable.
But not as uncomfortable at the next message:
Since iam not playing house with you then iam bored at home watching stupid videos like instead of me f — your brains out Iam watching YEah stupid shit likehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzOMhjmzxUw&feature=related
He sent these messages in quick succession and without any response whatsoever from me. He sent me another link to a YouTube video of cars racing and suggested that we he would have been fucking me if only he wasn’t so obsessed with car racing? The dude was nuts. I didn’t look at that link either (still haven’t) because I had no interest in anything having to do with him. I was indifferent to car racing but after dealing with him I actively hated it.
There was another message:
so sorry your having to deal with that medication , I was rude t react that way. i know whatcjhing the videos is boring yeah am bored and lonely. You see i am a builde r/ have no social skills Must appologize
I had fucking had it. He insulted me in my home, sent me a series of insulting, insinuating, and inappropriate messages, and then expected me to accept his apology based on his lack of social skills.
I’m not a particularly forgiving person:
You insult me and then attempt to apologize?! Not accepted.
I did not insult your “passion,” I simply said it was not mine. There’s no rule that in order to get along with someone you must have everything in common. Oh, and what’s your fucking problem that you can’t use proper punctuation, spelling, or grammar?
I NEVER said I hate men; I said I don’t like cuddling with men because they sweat in their sleep. Perhaps you should work on your listening skills.
That I don’t like YOU does not make me a lesbian, it makes me a person you does not like you. VERY immature and bigoted to fall back on that tack. Sad.
And because I was still pissed:
I’m sorry you seem to think me having a physical allergic reaction to medication has anything to do with my personality. It does not. Being belittled and patronized in my home doesn’t cotton well at any time.
I never heard from him again. Good riddance.
The reason this has come up recently is because I saw a bump on my left shin. It looked and felt suspiciously like a nascent erythema nodosum nodule. I called and made a doctor’s appointment. By the time I made it to my appointment the bump had retreated, but it certainly made me think because I stopped taking the potassium iodide not long after that shitty date in November 2008.
I swear. True story.
