My neighbors, Rose and Dieter, met in Germany.  Dieter is German, and consequently he and Rose often host German friends when they’re in town.  They had two German friends staying with them when I was invited out to lunch with them at Papalote. Yum.

I was the only person at the table who did not speak German.  Everyone spoke English very well, but understandably conversation would slip into the comfort zone of three of the five people present (and a language one other of the five could understand and speak very well).  Which I loved.  I really do like listening to the rhythm of a language I can’t understand.  Because I don’t have the ability to listen to the content, I can listen to the cadence.  The sounds are less coherent communication and more music to my ears.  Even German–a language which has been accused of auditory assault–sounds lovely when articulated by a native speaker.

Later that day, I ventured to the Marina to attend my friend’s book signing.  She illustrated a children’s book, Freckleface Strawberry and the Dodgeball Bully.  Julianne Moore wrote the book so the signing was packed with people and their little brats.

I dipped out to a bar, where I met a British bloke.  I chatted him up, and got his business card with his home number on the back.  Apparently he’s the person without a cell phone.  I’m definitely going to call him, if for no other reason than he’ll take me out to eat–I’m a food nerd.

Then back to the book store, where the signing had thankfully ended.  Met my friend’s husband and kid, congratulated the friend on her book, and saw Julianne Moore.  I opted for silence over saying something supremely stupid, but did exchange smiles with Ms. Moore.  She is beautiful in person.  And shorter than I expected.

I do not go to the Marina often.  It is not my kind of neighborhood.  I like gritty; in San Francisco I’ve lived only in the Tenderloin and the Mission.  The Marina is too damn clean for me.  But mostly it’s the people who live there that don’t appeal to me.  I refer to the Marina as LA North.  I dig LA–loved living there when I did–but the pressure of having to put on the right outfit and full make-up just to go to the damn corner store for some fucking wine is too much silliness.  And that pressure comes from the people who shoot dirty looks when I go to the corner store in flip-flops and–shock–no mascara.

But, as I was already there, I thought I should take advantage of it.  Only it was a Tuesday, and not much was going on.  I went into another bar and sat amongst the five people already there.  As it was still early–and dead–the staff had little to do.  Watching bar staff reminds me of the old pool hall days.  The camaraderie of bar work simply can’t be equaled in an office.

Finally, the Marina was boring me, so I hopped on the first of two buses I needed to take me back to the dirty Mission.  I changed buses at Fillmore and Geary.  Actually, I saw a bar at Fillmore and Geary and dipped in for another drink.

The Boom Boom Room was deader than the Marina bar had been, but I wanted another drink, dammit.  I was finishing up my drink and about to leave when in walked a group of guys.  How convenient.

They were a group of soccer players, I think; drunk Shazam doesn’t listen too well.  Drunk Shazam did, however, realize that English was most definitely not their first language.

Two of the guys were chatting with me.  One of them spoke no English so the other acted as translator.  I got to hear them talk to each other in Spanish during the translation process.  And that’s when I decided I would be fucking these two men.

I told the one who could speak English, Pedro (sure, that works), that I wanted them both to come back to my place and fuck me.  I made it clear that our goal was to DP me so they had to be ok with seeing one another’s dicks, and with having them touch.  I was not about to have two hot, but uptight, guys to my place.  Pedro affirmed that they would happily fulfill my need to have my ass and my pussy fucked simultaneously.

We hopped in a cab, stopped at a liquor store–because more drinks were surely required, right?–and then went to my house.  They made drinks and smoked on my patio while I took Isis out.  Only my dog knows how much of a slut I am.

Spoiler alert:  I still have not experienced the glory I imagine is getting DP’d.  I will some day, dammit.  That night I was too fucking drunk.  While a bit of alcohol can be nice for eliminating those pesky inhibitions, too much and things just don’t work properly.

And because I was too wasted, I have only snippets of memory once the three of us were in my bedroom.  I do recall making it VERY clear that condoms would be required.  I have a huge supply thanks to San Francisco City Clinic and recall repeating, “Condoms” and, “You have a condom on, right?”  Not too sexy–the repeating, not the insistence on using protection.

We did attempt, a couple of times I think, our goal.  But it just wasn’t happening.  Even for a basic ass fuck I need to relax and breathe and mentally and physically open up.  This drunk idiot is not capable of that much thought.  This sober girl wants so badly to feel a cock in her pussy and her ass concurrently, and will definitely be making it happen, and soon.

All the while, Pedro and the other guy were talking to each other in Spanish.  I’ve lived in California all my life so I’m used to hearing Spanish, as spoken by both Mexicans and Chicanos.  The Ex speaks Spanish nicely.  These guys, however, were South American, so the lilt of their speech sounded new and exciting.  So fucking hot.  I love hearing a language I can’t understand, and I love being spoken about as if I’m not there.  I had both with Pedro and the other one.  It was in so many ways the perfect situation and I fucked it up by being too damn drunk.  Boo, me.

I think I fucked both of them.  I assume I sucked both of them–because I want all the cocks in my mouth–all of them.

Eventually, they took their leave and the next morning (Isis assures I get up early no matter what) the only evidence of their presence was the bottle of vodka and the massive quantity of condoms, and condom wrappers, on my bedroom floor.

I swear.  True story.