Random Rim Jobs

My sister suggested I use Adult Friend Finder to find people to fuck.  Yes, my sister and I do tell each other about our casual sex pursuits.  I had not been having bad luck with Craig’s List, it’s just that San Francisco is a small town for a big city, and the population of people who use Craig’s List for casual sex is even smaller.  I had been getting responses to my ads from guys I had no interest in seeing again, much less fuck again.

I posted a profile on Adult Fried Finder and waited.  I got several responses, mostly from creepy old couples far out in the East Bay.  I made the mistake of being honest by saying that I was a single bisexual woman willing to participate in threesomes, what I’ve since learned is referred to as a unicorn because my kind is so rare.

One guy I met turned out to be a very nice guy.  I’ve dubbed him Lunch Guy because we usually go to lunch, have a couple of drinks, and then fuck.  Sometimes we fuck first, but we always have a nice lunch in my neighborhood.  He looks like an unassuming regular guy, but is fun and dirty in bed.  Before his cock ever went in my pussy, it went in my ass.

Another guy I initially didn’t want to meet.  When a guy is too eager, I get creeped out.  In this case, I was right.

Michael (his real name) came into my life when I was at a very low place.

We began hanging out whenever he wasn’t working.  We played a Filipino card game, the name of which I never fully understood.  We fucked, badly.

The first time we had sex it was horrible.  Really quite shitty.  We both agreed that it was bad.  Why either one of us bothered to fuck one another again I do not know.  Since I’ve had amazing sex with plenty of people, I’ll have to blame the low quality of the fucking on him.

He was the laziest fuck I have ever had.  He just laid there.  On a positive note, I feel like I’m better on top now because I had to be on top if I wanted cock in me at all.  Well, not “cock,” as I think of something big when that word is used.  He had a peter, a small little thing.

He thought his penis was average in size.  It was not.  It was small.  Small.

There was something about my depression that made this guy appealing to me.  He was tall, which I suppose is something that is considered attractive, but I generally don’t care how tall a guy is.  He had kind of cool hair, but I can work with most hair styles so long as they’re short; I don’t like long hair on guys.

I was drawn to his smell.  When he wasn’t wearing too much cologne he had a clean smell that made me loopy.  So loopy that I told him he could demand a blow job from me once per visit to my house.  I told him we could be watching tv or playing cards or having dinner and he could demand a blow job and I’d do it.

Pretty sweet deal, huh?  Well, he rarely took me up on it.  I still had to ask if I could please give him a blow job.  Often.  Why I wanted to suck that little thing so much I’ll never know unless I’m again that depressed.

He thought he was sexually skillful with his hands.  He was not.  When he fingered me I gave him plenty of feedback of the “yes, right there” and “keep doing that” sort.  Yet, he would move from right there and he would stop doing that.  It was extremely frustrating because I wanted to come, dammit.  And apparently it was frustrating to him too, because he would get mad at me for not coming, dammit.  I don’t know that he ever made me come.

Gentlemen, the last thing you should say to a woman who is taking a long time to come is, “You take a really long time to come.”  That just makes it take longer.  And it makes you an asshole.

Because Michael thought he had an average-sized penis and thought he was sexually skillful, he wanted us to have sex with other women.  More than once he requested we place an ad on Craig’s List to find a woman for a threesome.  Knowing that finding a woman for a threesome is a long and arduous process that is usually unsuccessful, I indulged him, but in reality I was embarrassed that I was fucking this guy, and didn’t want to have to see anyone’s reaction to his shitty skills, tiny penis, and looks.

He had horrible skin.  Very bad acne.  Being an acne sufferer myself I know the value of a good dermatologist and don’t understand why an adult with a job would not avail himself of the opportunity to see one.

He was fat.  Not hugely obese, but he definitely had a gut.  I suspect this gut, and the jiggling it did on the few occasions he was on top of me while fucking, was one of the reasons he wanted to be flat on his back most of the times we had sex.  Also, having to be active wore him out very quickly.

Michael had written a book of “poetry.”  There is nothing worse than a pretentious ass who thinks he’s so deep he can write poetry.  The book was dedicated to some chick with whom he’d supposedly been in love.  She had been married and broke off their affair to go back to her husband, thereby breaking Michael’s heart and causing him to pour out his emotions in poetry form.  I read some of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to read the whole thing; I wasn’t that self-destructive.

Most of Michael’s relationships had been with married women.  I was technically married during the time we saw each other, but the Ex and I were most definitely not going to get back together, and since I lived alone Michael and I didn’t have to sneak around to have sex.  Which occurred to me was the problem; I was too sexually available to him.  He liked his sex to be naughty and furtive and I was offering him a blow job whenever he wanted.  I think if I had told him I didn’t want to suck him off he would have wanted me to.

He seemed to think we had some sort of connection and often claimed we’d be friends even after we stopped seeing each other.  Even at my most depressed I was not stupid enough to think that.  I didn’t even like the guy.  He was a whiny asshole who blamed everyone else for his problems and who was deluded about his sexual prowess.  No thank you.

I don’t recall what finally ended things, only that they ended and I didn’t have to deal with him any more.  It was a relief.  Not having him around was the beginning of me getting better.

Several months after we stopped seeing each other he called me and asked me to go to his hotel to fuck him.  Apparently he had been evicted from his apartment and was living in a hotel.  Nice.

I reminded him that we had had shitty sex, and that he had refused many, many offers to suck his pee-pee back when we were seeing each other.  I told him that I had no interest in fucking him.  He was generous enough to offer to let me give him head.  No, I didn’t want to do that either.

He told me he was a hotel gigolo.  What the fuck?  He said he entertains ladies at the hotel.  Who?  What?  Huh?  I didn’t even want to know the details of what that meant, or what kind of hotel.  I did, however, feel compelled to express my incredulity at his assertion.

I stopped short of saying he had a small penis and was shitty in bed, but I think he got the message because I’ve not heard from him in a long time.

I no longer have a profile up on Adult Friend Finder.

I swear.  True story.

I’ve had guys ask me if I’ll write about them, or request I not write about certain things about them.  Most – as in 99.9% – of the time, those guys aren’t interesting enough to actually write about.

The interesting guys are the ones who don’t know I write, or who, if they know, don’t care because they trust me.

For example, I recently had a guy over.  Well, not over, really, considering my roommates were home and I couldn’t have him over to my place; it was about 4:30 am.

Instead this guy – with whom I’d had several text, photo, and phone exchanges – came over to my building (rather than into my apartment) where we promptly went into into the electrical cage of my building’s garage.

He and I had been working ourselves up into a lather, and had planned to fuck at my place earlier in the week during the day.  But then the Ex came home early due to illness and we had to postpone.

Once in the electrical cage of my building’s garage we kissed.  And then he asked if he could show me something.  It was something I’d only seen in photos, his cock.  And the photos didn’t do it justice.

I love being pleasantly surprised by the size of a guy’s cock.  In the photos his dick looked decent, but not big.  I once again realized there in my building’s garage that perspective is everything.  The guy was huge – around 6’4″ with large hands to match – so the photos of him holding his cock looked like a regular-sized hand holding an average-sized penis.

It was just that his big hands dwarfed his nice, thick, meaty cock.  Yay!  I was very happy and wanted it in my mouth.  Luckily, a pile of moving blankets had been left in the cage, and I dropped to my knees on them so I could get his cock into my mouth.

I conveniently had condoms in the pocket of my sweatshirt.  I try to have condoms on me at all times so I’m always prepared for fucking.  I was very glad for those moving blankets again, when he fucked me from behind; without the blankets my knees and elbows would have been torn up.

Then I turned over and he fucked me some more.  I could tell he wanted to come, and though it was our first time together, I figured a quickie was fine considering our surroundings.

He fucked me good and hard.  I love making noise while I’m getting pounded, but unfortunately I had to stifle myself so as to not alert my neighbors, as unlikely as they were to be in the garage at that time.  More than once I had to place one of my hands over my mouth, though it would have been nice if he had done so ….

I told him he could come in me (with a condom) or on me (because some women who get fucked in the wee hours in garages might not like that), that it was up to him.  He pulled out, took off the condom, and began to jack off.  I reached down and rubbed my clit.

He told me he wanted to see fingers inside so I fucked myself with the middle two fingers of my right hand.  I couldn’t see his cock because my back was arched over the pile of blankets, but I could see his face.  I liked that he was looking at my pussy, and my fingers fucking it.

Then he announced that he was going to come.  I love the feeling of hot come hitting my skin.  He came on my stomach and pussy, and hand.  His come was copious and thick.

I rubbed some of his come into my clit.  Come makes excellent lube, and if he hadn’t just come, and if we weren’t in my garage, and if it wasn’t almost 5am, I’d've had him fuck me, finger fuck me, fist fuck me, go down on me, fuck my ass, and otherwise continue the fun.

Throughout the experience he kept telling me that we “had” to do it again, that he didn’t want the one garage experience.  Which of course was very flattering.  And he kept telling me I was gorgeous.  Who doesn’t want to hear that?

He had no clue that I have a blog, at least as far as I know.

I swear.  True story.

8:55 am

The last day o’ the month.  I have written half a book just in this short time and gone through many ups and downs.  My parents aren’t doing anything, they still let me go to work, talk on the phone, etc.  But I guess they see that if they tried to do anything, it’d be even worse.  But I wonder if I’ll still be able to spend the night over at Shannon’s anymore?  Dad was going to let me to to “Rocky” with them Friday so I guess I can still go out.  [Step-Sister] and Shannon get along great so maybe Erica and she can both spend the night some time soon.  In lifeskills we’re supposed to ask people how they perceive us then tell them how we really are.  Well, I’m sure not going to do that.  Oh gee.  Eric Rue sure is a stud-man.  He’s just so gorgeous that I almost have an orgasm every time I look at him.  Ha just kidding.  Well, perhaps Beth and I can become friends.  Yippee I hope so.

7:24 pm

[Step-Sister] got her license.  She’s quite happy and so am I.  No we can go see Shannon and Erica together.  Often Dad says he wants me to be successful, etc., and not make mistakes so I can’t be.  He says he can’t do anything about the lifestyle I’ve chosen and he won’t rag on me about it.  That’s pretty cool.  I just can’t “do it around here” which only means they don’t want to see any open affection.  Oh well.  So I guess I stay here, maybe, I don’t know.

Jesús died two years ago.  At the time we weren’t talking, really.  I think he was mad at me for fucking up my marriage.  I think he thought of the Ex and I as a steady force in his life and blamed me for upsetting the balance.

He used to sleep at our place on weekends when he’d gone out (usually with the Ex) and it was too late to take BART back to Oakland.  He had a toothbrush I provided him and the downstairs bathroom was dubbed his.  I gave him shit when he didn’t squeegee down the glass shower doors in his bathroom after showering, which was often.

Jesús absolutely loved music, and tended to like it rather depressing.  Oftentimes when we had a social gathering at our house Jesús would take it upon himself to play music.  One of the common songs he’d play was Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You.”  While a great song, it’s not exactly the kind of song that’ll get people jumping at a party.

When Jesús was a passenger in a car he’d go through the car’s musical selection (in cassette or CD form) and put on what he wanted to hear without consulting the driver or any of the other passengers.

I once accused him of thinking that his taste was so good that he felt that everyone else needed to be enlightened by his musical taste.  He denied it, but I still assert that was the case.

Jesús and I went to a show at the Independent a few years back.  The headliners were Kasabian, the lead singer of which kept saying, “Hello, San Francisco” as if he was reminding himself and his band members of where they were playing.  One of the opening bands was Mew, a band that impressed both of us, me because the lead singer had a baby face, him probably because they’re kind of depressing.  ”Zookeeper’s Boy” is an excellent example.

When I drove the Ex to SFO so he could go to Jesús’ funeral, Pela’s song “Episodes” came on and I began to cry.  I’m pretty sure Jesús never heard the song but for some reason it reminded me of him.  I did not go to the funeral; I’ve never been to an open casket funeral and hope I never will.

And recently I’ve discovered this song:

I’m convinced that if Jesús had heard the song he would have loved it.

I keep Jesús’ toothbrush in the downstairs bathroom still.  A painting Jesús did is above the fireplace.

No, I never had sex with him.  We were good friends.  I miss him.

I swear.  True story.

I have bruises on me, which was a tad awkward when I went bra shopping today.

I asked Roomie how much she thought I paid for three bras today.  Her first guess was $60.  Which is so fucking cute.  $215 was the truth.  Roomie is adorable, but has never had large breasts.  She thinks that’s bad, but then she’d pay only $60 for three bras and I had to pay $215.

I would love to have cute little titties.  I would love to not have to wear a bra; which she doesn’t have to do.  I really do think she’s lucky; I’m not being condescending I promise.

When I was a kid I was worried that my breasts would get “too” large.  My mother always had “table” boobs, meaning they formed a table onto which she would often spill food.  She had huge breasts.  Huge.  I recall when I was a kid that they were a big freaky deal.

My mother had told me she had developed early (she started her period when she was nine years old) so I figured I’d follow in her footsteps.  I went away to summer camp one year freaked the fuck out that I’d start my period; I did not, thankfully.

Then I began to develop breasts relatively early.  When I was in sixth grade I was told I had “pretty big tits, for a sixth grader” by an eighth-grade pervy asshole.  My breasts were relatively large for my age, much to the chagrin of my step-sister, who was my same age but whose breasts were much later to develop.

And they keep getting larger.  I apparently have G-cup breasts now.  I know it’s because I keep not getting any thinner, but also because the size system has changed.  What was once DDD is now F and what was once DDDD is now G.  Different bra manufacturers also have different cup size standards.  By the way, gentlemen, the letters are the cup sizes, the numbers are the number of inches (in the US) around the ribs.

So I went bra shopping today because it was down to the wire (pun not intended).  I had to go bra shopping.  Embarrassingly, I had one bra I was wearing daily.  I didn’t have time to wash the bra because I had to wear it every day.  Yes, I’m fucking disgusting.  But considering how much my bras cost it was understandable that I had to put it off.

I really don’t feel like my breasts are all that big, but my judgment may be skewed by my mother’s enormotits, the size of which I now know I’ll never achieve (as if that’s something to achieve) because I’ve thankfully got my dad’s thinner (and great hair) genes.

Today I went into the lingerie section of Bloomingdale’s, where no one helped me and where I did not see any bras my size (which I thought was 34DDD at the time).  Then I walked into Victoria’s Secret for shits and giggles.  I used to buy bras from Victoria’s Secret about fifteen years ago, but found that anything that actually fit me (and my breasts were considerably smaller then) fell apart from the effort of actually doing the work of holding up breasts of any substance.  Until today I’d not walked into a Victoria’s Secret in a number of years.  The latest line of convertible (as in they can be changed from strapless, to t-back, to halter, etc.) Victoria’s Secret bras only goes up to DD.

I didn’t bother going into Frederick’s of Hollywood, mostly because it’s always struck me as tacky.  However, now that I think about it, they may cater to the surgically-augmented set, which would translate into bras that would actually fit me.

I went to Nordstrom, where one of the lingerie department employees took pity on me.  She could see that I was distressed and helped me find several bras in my (perceived) size to try on.  She also came into the fitting room to look at what I was working with.  This is a common thing, and it’s actually very helpful for the bra saleslady to see how things are fitting.

Up to the point when she came into the room I had tried on several ill-fitting bras.  I felt gross and began to question my size choice.  I measured my ribs with a provided tape measure – yep, still around 34 inches, and certainly not over.  I also began to question why anyone would want to see me naked or have sex with me.

The saleslady brought me several other bras within my requirement of black and nude “practical” bras and one “sexy” bra.  The saleslady was very nice and said things like, “That brand tends to run small” and other things that made me feel not quite so shitty.

The saleslady was nice enough to not question the interesting marks on my upper body.  The Vegan and I had what I can only describe as a fucking glorious night last night.  Fucking glorious.  I can feel my pussy tingle as I think about it.  Fucking glorious.  It always amazes me when I have sex that good because every time it feels like it’s more and better than I’ve ever had before, and at the same time I think it’s not possible that I’ve not already experienced all that I can considering my age and my, uh, vast experience.

But then that’s one of the great things about fucking and sex and pushing limits.  So the Vegan is a biter and I have bite marks on my neck and shoulders and arms and the Nordstrom’s saleslady didn’t bat an eye that I noticed.  She just brought me other bras in sizes such as 34G.

I settled on three bras, one a practical black one, one a practical nude one, and one sexy one.

I swear.  True story

9:12 am

CTBS [California Test for Basic Skills, which I took every other year throughout my public school education in California.  My mother, a public school teacher, made me believe that they were important so I always took them seriously.  I still recall some of the blurbs I read in third grade for reading comprehension.  "Pocket Parks," about small, urban parks, was one of them.] have got to be the most simplistic, boring, idiotic, lame things I have ever done in my entire life.  Oh well.  I don’t think I get to eat lunch with my honey for the next three days.  I guess I’ll live.  They came over last night to pick up Erica’s ice cream and they had tin roof sundae in the car but I couldn’t have any.  They told me to wait so next time it’s even better.  Well, I guess I’ll just go through torture.  Erica was showing her hickeys on her stomach yesterday at lunch and Amy said something like I could show mine but it’s too much or you don’t want to see it, or something to that effect.  I don’t really care about her dumb hickeys.  She thinks we’d both be jealous.  I don’t care and Erica’s had sex with Juree lately so she didn’t care a lot either.  Amy thinks she’s the coolest and she won and all but does she know she’s only being strung along?  Sunday was also a good day for discovering.  I was looking in the ‘ol accordion file for my savings bonds and came across something in my writing.  It was a letter to my mom that had been photocopied.  Boy, was I thrilled.  It said stuff about Erica and I being together, and how I don’t care about my tendencies because they don’t make a difference anyway.  So she [Step-Mother] obviously showed it to Father and that’s why he said what he said to me in the car on Friday.  But they think I’m totally far gone.  I still like guys.  But I might as well make them think I hate them so last night I went went off on how stupid guys are.  The letter [Step-Mother] photocopied had been sealed and addressed to my mother, I just didn’t have a chance to put a stamp on it and put it in the box.  She steamed it open and sealed it back up.  She probably also looked at the pictures from Christmas so I guess she knows that Erica went down there.  Oh well, she probably thinks my mom watched us have sex or whatever and knew all about it but she didn’t.  I feel like writing a boobied letter so [Step-Mother] can read it.

My favorite, and closest, dive bar is about two blocks away.  It’s often where I meet guys in person for the first time.  As I meet a lot of guys in person for the first time, I’ve been there quite a bit.

I’ve noticed a regular who makes me want to lick him all over.  He’s so hot I can even get past that big, mountain-man-style full beard.  Because of that beard I’m not really sure what’s going on with his mouth, and I am most definitely a mouth person.  I notice someone’s lips and teeth well before their eyes even register for me, usually.

But with this guy I’ve noticed he has nice light eyes.  I say light because I suspect his eyes are blue, but don’t want to make the assumption that many make with me.  My eyes are green, but people assume they are blue.  Since I’m not an eye person, I don’t really care that much, but others seem to think eyes are so fucking important.

He has short hair on his head.  He has a lot of tattoos.  Every time I’ve noticed him he’s been wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt.  Which is how I know he’s got a nice thin, hard body.  That I want to lick.

He smokes so I get to watch him walk between his seat at the bar and the front door.  When I’m feeling particularly dirty I like to kiss someone with cigarette breath, though because of that beard I may opt to not kiss him at all (in my fantasy, that is).

I want to follow him into the bathroom vestibule and wait for him.  Then, when he comes out of the men’s room he’ll see me and know.  Know that I’m there for him.  Without saying a word he’ll go into the women’s room.  I’ll follow him in and lock the door.

He’ll stand and pull out his cock.  It will be nice and thick and strong and hard.  His pubic hair will be trim like the hair on his head, not bushy like the hair on his face.  There will be precome coming out of his urethra.  A lot of it.

I will bend down at the waist to catch the precome before it’s wasted on the dirty bathroom floor.  Yum.  He frees his whole cock from his pants and pulls them down to rest on his hips.  He pulls up his t-shirt a bit.  I see a nice hard, flat stomach complete with sinewy muscles and jutting hip bones.

I drop to my knees with a smile on my face.  I close my eyes and open my mouth.  He smells good and his cock fits nicely into my mouth.  I slide my mouth up and down his cock.  My mouth gets wet the more his cock shoves into and out of it.

I’ll try to deepthroat his cock, but chances are I’ll not be able to because of the logistics in the small bathroom.  I do my best deepthroating when I can hang my head off a bed, or in the 69 position to the side (i.e., kneeling next to the guy’s torso without actually getting my pussy attended to; 69 distracts me too much).

But I will suck and lick and drool with his hand on the top of my head, guiding me.  I will feel his cock throb and know he’s going to shoot his load in my mouth.  It will be bitter because he drinks and smokes, and I will like it and swallow it all.

He’ll put his pretty cock away, button up, and leave the bathroom.  I’ll go back out to the bar where a fresh vodka soda is waiting for me.  We will continue ignore each other.

I swear.  True (fantasy) story.