Random Rim Jobs

11:58 P.M.

I’ve figured it out – one of them works at night and the other drives them.  Pretty neat huh?  Lori cunt face is on vacation – thank the good lord in heaven.  I could be terminated – I have my first verbal written warning.  I get like five chances – what push-overs.  But it did get my attention and I’m gonna stop.  I want a good job where I make more money.  But where?  I can’t do what Gretchen does.  And now she’s marrying money – no fair.  Henry’s a jerk I hate him.  He offered to beat up Dan for me.  Well he said that if he was bothering me he’d go get him – very chivalrous (he (Henry)) has great manners.  When we first got on the phone I was complaining about Beth and Maury being nasty in front of me and Henry said to tell them that we could be nastier.  I was so shocked!  And happy.  But now he’s a jerk.  Made $8.50 at Nautilus tonight.  I want to be a waitress so I can get tips legally and at a steadier rate.  I could go to Pasadena.  There are tons of restaurants there.  Why’s he such a fuckhead?

[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.

[Continued from "Just When It Was Perfect … (Part 3)."]

Jules Verne and I got together several times.  I learned some interesting things about him; things that if I had known up front might have prevented me from fucking him, much less making him a regular.  But by the time I learned the things I already liked him and already liked fucking him.

He was a frat boy.  Mind you, when we met, Jules Verne was 24, and had only recently gotten out of college.  Where he was in a fraternity.  My one experience with frat parties was unpleasant, though it was a good story.  I wasn’t so much anti-frat boy as anti-frat mentality.  Jules Verne, the frat boy, was an interesting guy.  Jules Verne, dude in a frat, well, I didn’t know him.

Jules Verne and I never socialized with his friends, which, after I found out the only music he liked was clubby dance music and the Rolling Stones (to which we always listened when we were at his place), I thought was a good thing.  He told me he went out to the kinds of clubs where he and his friends could get bottle service.  And that’s when our age difference became apparent, because while I used to do that sort of thing, I don’t have the patience any more for loud dance music, or cover charges, or drunk assholes.

But I knew Jules Verne on a one-on-one basis.  I tried not to hold against him that he drank Coors Light.  And chewed tobacco.  Gross and gross.  I don’t like beer at all, so Coors Light is no different to me than any other kind of beer, but I’ve heard from beer aficionados that Coors Light could barely be considered beer.  Ok, so I “heard” this from the Viking, to whom I’d offered cans of Coors Light Jules Verne left in our fridge.  The Viking wanted nothing to do with it.

One night I was home alone and wanted to drink but the corner liquor store was already closed (Who the fuck closes a liquor store at 10:30 pm?!) so I went ahead and drank one of Jules Verne’s Coors Lights.  Uh, no.  I still don’t like beer.

The chewing tobacco thing especially grossed me out.  When I was in sixth grade (grade six to you Canadians) I moved in with my father, step-mother, step-sister, sister, and step-brother in Palo Cedro, California.  Palo Cedro is a rural outlay of Redding.  While attending Junction Middle School, the sixth graders, the class of which both my step-sister and I were members, were treated to some educational videos of the scared straight variety.

Because most of the students were white and rural, the educational videos showed us the dangers of chewing tobacco.  We saw guys – they were always guys – who had parts of their tongues, lips, faces, and jaws removed due to various kinds of cancer, all of which could be attributed to – or at least correlated with (though I didn’t understand the difference at the time) – chew.  The videos focused on the typical kids there at Junction:  White, rural, rodeo-attending, with acres of land on which they could ride their horses, or more likely, ride their all-terrain vehicles.  My family fit only the white part.  We were really suburban who had happened to find an affordable house large enough for each of the four kids to have his or her own bedroom.  We didn’t have any land other than the yard surrounding our rented house.

Nonetheless, the videos worked on me.  Chewing tobacco was fucking gross.  All the spitting.  The wad of yucky stuff.

So when I saw that Jules Verne’s lower lip protruded in an odd way I asked.  Apparently chewing tobacco and drinking Coors Light were leftover from his fraternity days.  I chalked it up to a bunch of spoiled rich kids aping less spoiled, less rich kids.  Jules Verne swore that wasn’t the case, that he really did like Coors Light and chewing tobacco.  Whatever.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

[Here's another post from a guest writer.  Your writing, too, can be immortalized here on Random Rim Jobs.  Just email me, [email protected].]

As I was sitting, sipping my dirty martini, smoking a fine cigar, I peered across the table, through the smoke. The candlelight flickering in your eyes and that devious smile gave me that all-too-familiar feeling. Your words were barely audible over the crooning of the jazz singer behind us. I asked you to move closer and you whispered in my ear. As you moved back in your chair, that smile crept across your face again.

Upon completion of our drinks and my stogie, I suggested that we make our leave, to which you quickly agreed. However, instead of heading back to the car, you wanted to walk around, enjoying the cool night air. As we walked, our fingers entwined. We stroked and caressed each other gently and playfully as we walked. With each step, we could feel the energy building between us. It wasn’t long before we cut the walk short and drove back to the house.

As we walked into the house, our lips found each other, and we kissed passionately. After we made it into the bedroom, I lay you on the bed and kissed your ears, neck, chin, and breasts. I then removed your blouse and bra. My mouth enjoyed your body, as I kissed, licked, and nibbled up and down your arms, across your stomach. I traced circles around your nipples, careful not to let my tongue touch them. As I did, your nipples grew hard.

I slowly removed your pants and panties. Again, I kissed, licked, and nibbled up and down your legs. You squirmed with excitement. I placed your hands above your head and told you to leave them there. As I ran my tongue between your soft, velvety folds, I could feel the sheets pulled taut by your hands clutch the sheets.

I put a piece of ice in my mouth and continued to orally please you, tracing the tip of the cube across your engorged clit, causing intense feeling of pleasure to go through your body. My arms wrapped tighter around your thighs. I then sucked on each of your nipples, the warmth of my lips contrasting the the coldness of the ice. After what must have seemed an eternity for you, I arose.

Instead of sliding right in, I teased you a bit. Then with one sudden movement, I entered you completely. An audible gasp filled the room. I took your hands in mine, grasping your wrists, and held them to the bed. Neither of us dared speak a word, as I performed my art. Your eyes told me everything that needed to be said. I fulfilled every request you made.

My fingers gently stroked the sides of your neck, your ears, your cheeks, and your chin before I took hold of your jaw, and moved your head to the side. I then bit your neck. Your body writhed in ecstasy. As you moved closer to climax, your breathing became heavy. I covered your mouth with my hand, as if to quiet you down, and bit harder on your neck. Your body then quaked with orgasmic force. I stayed inside you afterward, your body shivering with aftershocks.

As we lie there in our bliss, stroking each other’s bodies, drawing on each other with our fingertips, running our hands through each other’s hair, we could do nothing but smile.

11:51 P.M.

I’m bored.  I keep losing at cards.  Henry hasn’t called tonight.  I have a blister on my finger.  Lori’s a fucking cunt.  Henry called me at work today.  I think my upstairs neighbors deal drugs.  They leave at around midnight two nights in a row now.  Last night they came back an hour later.  I’ll see what they do tonight.  Laura might come over with Matt.  I do not like being bored at all.  My house is clean so I can’t do that.  Guess I could eat.  But I don’t want to ’cause I’m already fat enough.  Lori wrote me up for having too many personal calls.  She and K.C make them too so she can fuck herself – which I’m sure she does ’cause if I were her husband I wouldn’t touch her with someone else’s dick.  I want to be alone with Henry and just look at him.  I wonder if he even thinks that I think about him so much and I think he’s so good-looking.  Does he even suspect?  Does he think I’m good-looking?  Does he think about me a lot?  Does he think about kissing me?  Does he want to have sex with me?  I want to know, dam it.

This summer in San Francisco has supposedly been the coolest since before I was born.  The fog, which normally burns off by around noon, has stuck around well into the afternoons and evenings.  Having lived in San Francisco for ten years, I knew summer wouldn’t be an even where layers weren’t necessary.  Nonetheless, this summer has been especially un-summer-like.  There are rumors, which have been refuted, about Mark Twain mentioning a coldest winter he spent in San Francisco.  This year, it may be true.

I never noticed until this year that it gets very cool just after sundown, and then warms up again later in the evening.  That likely has something to do with the fog, air currents, etc.; I don’t know, I’m not a fucking meteorologist.

In my experience, the best time of year here in San Francisco tends to be in September and October.  And since it’s almost September, that’s good, right?  Well, sort of.  I’m not supposed to be in San Francisco anymore.  I was supposed to be gone by mid-August.

And I hope to be gone before winter because it will take me some getting used to winter weather in Chicago – if that’s where we’re going.  The Viking said I needed to get used to the cold weather slowly, like a frog being boiled … only in the opposite fashion.  I will need to go from cool summer, to fall, to winter gradually; otherwise I’ll suffer miserably.

Or maybe from fall/winter to spring/summer ….

And then this week it was record breakingly hot in San Francisco.  What the fuck?  On at least one day it was hotter in San Francisco than in Chicago.  That doesn’t happen, dammit.  It was still more humid in Chicago, of course.

San Francisco isn’t really equipped for extreme heat.  We barely left home, but heard tell of power outages, BART delays, and other heat-related woes.  We tried to hold still.  The Viking was weary from the heat.  There was no cross ventilation.  Joaquin didn’t even try to lay on me, which he has been doing much more recently.

And then the weather dipped down much cooler than usual.  San Francisco weather has multiple personality disorder.

I swear.  True story.

There’s something about a well-constrained but “wild” bush that turns me the fuck on.  A lot of it has to do with the fact that I’ve not encountered a live bushy bush in a long fucking time.  Ever?

I have a craving to grab and pull a tidy bunch of pussy hair.  I know how that would feel, were my pussy hair pulled, and I like the idea of making a pussy feel like that.  I don’t know if there’s an equivalent for men, but I imagine it might be testicle-related; a confident tug at balls has the potential to make genitals feel good.

Just thinking of that is making my pussy tingle.  I want my pussy lips grabbed whilst a tongue is probing my clit.

I swear.  True story.