Random Rim Jobs

Though I’ve not used OkCupid in a while, I’ve not bothered to delete my profile.  I haven’t looked at the site in ages, but I still get emails.  The emails tell me that one of the nine pictured people has given me a four or five star rating, and that if I go to the site and rate some guys, I just might also rate the same guy four or five stars, at which time we’ll be hooked up.

I’ve seen pictures of pictures of people I follow in Twitter.  I’ve seen pictures of very old guys.  I’ve seen pictures of young guys.  I’ve seen pictures that didn’t even have humans in them.  The following are the nine most recent photos I’ve received from OkCupid.

	(Left.)  I can see only a portion of one eye of this aged looker.  I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to think about the lame sunglasses, or the shaggy facial hair.  And while I’ve fucked some older guys, I don’t think, based purely on this photo, that I’d fuck this one.  Next!
(Right.)  This guy actually looks kind of cute.  I just wish the photo were better.  Mind you, I’ve not looked at the guy’s profile, and wouldn’t know how to find it just from the picture anyway.
	(Left.)  This guy is clearly arty because his photo is black and white.  He is also clearly happy because he is smiling.  And he is also clearly bald because he is, well, bald.  I don’t dislike bald men.  My ex-husband, the Ex, was balding, which I had figured out before we started dating. He was a customer at the bar where I worked. He looked like Andre Agassi, and, like Andre, had a hairline that was backing away from his face. I still thought he was cute, and ended up dating and marrying the guy, so bald isn’t an issue for me. But bald with a full beard looks funny. He also looks pretty young, which isn’t a deal breaker, but I’ve no interest in someone who could be whiny.
(Right.) Why is this guy angry? And why are his eyes differently sized? Why did he think the photo would make anyone want to date him? He kind of looks like Popeye.
	(Left.)  This is the best photo of the bunch.  Hey, guys, try a photo like this.  He looks like a nice guy.  He’s looking at the camera.  He has a nice smile.  The lighting is good.  He looks pleasant.
(Right.)  The only things I can tell about this guy from this rather shitty photo are that he’s not obese and that he really likes water.  He must considering he’s both gazing at a body of it and holding a bottle of it.  Why did he think this would be a good photo?
	(Left.)  I suppose this guy thought this photo would make him look fun and carefree.  I think it kind of makes him look like a douche.  He is smiling, but I can’t see his eyes.  I’m not much of an eye person, but I would like to know he’s got ‘em.
(Right.) This guy’s showing his eyes, but what the fuck is he looking at? And this photo is of rather shitty quality. And what the fuck is he wearing, overalls? That makes me think that the photo was taken in 1992, or that he works in some sort of overall-clad trade, like plumbing or a carpentering. I respect the trades because they can do things I can only imagine.
	(Left.)  Clearly, I saved the best for last.  Like the first guy, I can only see one of this guy’s eyes.  Other than that, there are so many other things wrong with this photo.  It’s of shitty quality.  He’s not smiling.  But the worst (best?) thing about this photo is the hooded cloak.  Wow!  He’s marked himself as a LARPer, and a humorless one at that; he’s dead serious about his craft.  I’m quite curious to know if this guy has gotten any responses at all based on this photo.  Again, I don’t have access to his profile, but I have to imagine it includes something about World of Warcraft and/or Magic the Gathering.  Who the fuck would want to fuck this guy?!  Hey, I understand that there are geeks out there, and I do think we’re all geeky about some things, but that kind of geek I absolutely cannot get into.

I swear.  True story.

[This is the beginning of another story by a guest writer.  It's hot and, yep, fun.]

It was 1968. The sex was fierce, sharp and dangerous, as were the politics.

We boomers outnumbered the old, the children of war and depression. We controlled so much of the culture that we no longer needed them. We were off in our own little college ghettos and had the freedom inside those enclaves to do pretty much as we pleased. The professors wanted to be us but we did not want to be them.

Her name was Clarissa. We were both in a dance company that was bringing the college theater department into the modern world. She was a senior in high school but she danced with the college company. I was a junior in college and ran the technical department. She was a bit innocent, or seemed so, her family being old world. She didn’t pay me much mind. I had a reputation, so she stayed on the other side of the room from me. I found her beautiful to look at and interesting to talk to, when she would talk.

We were at a party after our Friday night show. Dancers always come out of a show wired from the sheer physicality of it all. I’ve never understood exactly why, all that exercise seemed exhausting to me, but they never were exhausted. Often, they just continued dancing at the party.

I don’t dance, not with real dancers, so I was just sitting on the floor enjoying the show and getting a little stoned and a little drunk. Clarissa flopped down next to me; she had a drink in her hand. She was usually the one dancing. I offered her my joint and she took a hit. “Tired?” I asked.

“I’m just a little bored and maybe a bit pissed off.”

“What about?”

“I wanted to dance ‘Sex.’ Why didn’t Dr. White want me to dance Sex?” The company had opened a new dance that night called “Sex, Drugs and Rock-and-Roll” which was an allegory of a woman dancer representing Sex playing with two men representing Drugs and Rock-n-Roll. It was probably going to cause a scandal, but then that was what modernism is supposed to do. Almost all the women in the company had vied for that part but it had gone to Heather, who was older and was dancing in a go-go club to work her way through school. She danced Sex, hell, she was sex. Heather was both the cause of my reputation and the one who helped me live up to it.

“Clarissa, that’s not your part.”

“I’m tired of playing little girls.”

“But that’s what you look like.”

She gave me a look like she was going to tear my throat out with her teeth then it softened.

“Maybe it’s because I’m 18 and still a virgin. You can do something about that?”

“But your boyfriend …”

“He’s so afraid of me … are you afraid of me?”

At the moment I was, but, “No” seemed the more appropriate response.

“Then get me out of here and fuck me. Let’s go to the dance studio.”

We got up and left. No one noticed. It was a warm night, early summer. I was in my uniform of jeans and a work shirt. She was in bib overalls and a leotard. I wore boots, she was barefoot.

“You have your key?”

[To be continued ….]

7:09 A.M.

I hate Henry!  Last night I was at a party with Laura and got a little intoxicated.  I was flirting with quite a few people and I couldn’t stop smiling.  Anyway, I called Henry and he was home.  I guess he could tell I was drunk by the way I was talking – I don’t know.  He supposedly had a couple of friends over and wanted to go.  I told him he should come over to my house later and he was like – Ya, ya call me later.  Then he asked me if I liked my ride home the other night and of course I said yes.  Then I told him I didn’t know what I was doing and he finally admitted that it didn’t feel as good as it could have.  But he kept telling me to call him when I get home ’cause he’d be home waiting for my call.  So I told Laura and she said I should call him back right then and get him to pick me up ’cause we were a lot closer to his house than my house.  So I tried to call him.  And tried, and tried, and tried.  He wasn’t home.  Then after Laura took me home I tried some more.  Finally his mother answered and stupid Suzanne said, “Is Henry there?”  Is that fucking stupid or what?  She hung up on me.  I guess she was expecting me to be some sort of emergency.  So not she’s gonna yell at Henry ’cause some geek let the damn phone ring all night.  So I stopped calling.

So, my big question is – Where was he?  And who was he with?  And why didn’t he call me when he got home?  Even if I wasn’t home he could have tried.  But he didn’t ’cause I’m confident I would’ve been awakened by the phone and what if he was just humoring me ’cause I was drunk?  Because that really pisses me off.  I keep thinking to myself why would he lie to me about anything but then now I’m thinking, why wouldn’t he?  Fuck.  And I am going to tell him that I am very angry at him for not being home and for shining me on.  Even Laura said I should have gone to her house hot tubbing ’cause all the other times Henry said he was going to do stuff, he hasn’t.  Well, once again Henry’s a flake.  I hate him.  Why does he do this to me?  Why do I let him?  Damn!  I have to be firm with him when I yell at him.  And I’m never calling him at home again.  And I’m sure his mother hates me now.

Henry –

I want to see you but not only because of sex.  That confirmed everything I wanted to know.  But I’ve always wanted to see you more often than we do.  Maybe now I’m willing to tell you because you’ve gotten in too.  I’m not saying anything like spending all free time together or — shit.  I want to be able to tell you I want to see you and I like you without worrying if you feel the same way.  I don’t want to play any games and I don’t want there to be any need for lies.  Don’t you like kissing?  Do you think I’m a good kisser?

[Continued from "Alcohol (Part 5)."]

I went home.  My mother and DJ came along.  Then my step-mother lorded over a “family” meeting.  The parents didn’t know what to do with me.

I had been “acting up.”  In addition, there was my father’s employment issues, my step-sister’s pregnancy scare, the fact that my sister had helped me get the booze, and just some general shit.  Added to that, my alcohol overdose had run up quite a hospital bill; my dad and step-mother hadn’t thought me important enough to get me health insurance.

My step-mother couldn’t take any more.  I couldn’t take any more.  My step-mother wanted to put me in rehab.  She kept saying that I had a drinking problem, that I drank to get drunk.  I was 14, of course I was drinking to get drunk.  Only my step-mother didn’t think my overdose was due to ignorance – which it absolutely was – she thought it was due to my alcoholic genes.  To illustrate this, my step-mother pointed out that her daughter, my step-sister, drank socially since neither one of her parents was an alcoholic.

I’m still not sure, but we all suspected my father had started drinking again, and my step-mother had no patience for excessive drinking.  Unlike my father, however, I had very little history with alcohol.  My father had had those pass-out parties; I had drunk alcohol all of about four times.

My step-mother wanted to put me into rehab, which I thought was ridiculous.  I wasn’t a daily drinker; I wasn’t even a weekly drinker.  What the fuck could rehab do for me?  What the fuck would I do in rehab?

My mother didn’t agree.  I don’t remember my father saying much of anything.  My father, especially when encountered by his wife and his ex-wife, was cowed.  My father was easily cowed.

I didn’t want to go to rehab.  I decided I’d move in with my mother and DJ.  They had made it clear that they had room for me in their place in Monterey Park.  My mother and DJ had first been together when I was eight, and had recently gotten back together.  DJ had moved my mother to southern California so they could again be together.  During the interim, DJ had herself been to rehab, had established a sober life in southern California.

Before I moved I had to pack and finish up the quarter at school.  When I returned to school, it was as if I was a lame celebrity; it felt like everyone knew what had happened and were sniggering about it behind my back.

Certainly when I was called out of class, people talked.  I went to the school’s office, as directed.  There, a man introduced himself to me as a detective with the Redding Police Department.

I still don’t know if my parents contacted the police, or if the hospital had to as a matter of course when a minor overdosed on alcohol (or anything else).  What I do know now is that police need permission from parents to question minors.

My parents may or may not have given permission for the detective to question me.  All I knew at the time was that this was a cop and he was asking me questions.  But what really put me on alert was when he read me my rights.

You know, the Miranda warning.  Y’all have heard it on any cop show or police movie.  At the time I was under the impression that hearing those words meant I was under arrest, but the detective assured me that I was not.

The detective proceeded to ask me questions about the origin of the alcohol I drank that night.  My parents already knew how I got the booze, and were in the process of kicking my sister out (again) for facilitating the purchase, so I figured I might as well tell the truth.  Also, I’m a shitty liar.  Always have been.

So I told the detective about my sister’s boyfriend buying and delivering the booze to me.  I don’t know if they ever bothered to question him, but neither he nor I were ever actually arrested for our crimes.  Those crimes, the ones relating to my alcohol overdose when I was 14.

I have never been arrested at all.  (Knock on wood.)

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued, the story of my long and storied history with alcohol.]

I may have gone to the Folsom Street Fair as a kid.  It is most decidedly not appropriate for children, but my mother often took me to things that were not appropriate for children.  Things like parties with open illicit drug use.  Things like sexually explicit movies.

However, I don’t have a memory of the Folsom Street Fair when I was a kid.  I may have gotten it mixed up with the Gay Pride Parade, which we went to on several occasions when I was a kid.  We drove down to San Francisco from Santa Rosa often so I may have my events mixed up.

A reason my mother would not have taken me to the Folsom Street Fair would not be because it was inappropriate for a kid, but because back in then the Folsom Street Fair was a much different animal than it is now.  It was populated predominantly by gay men into the leather scene.  My mother had plenty of gay male friends, but chances are she would have found the hardcore aspect of the Fair back then distasteful.

I first encountered Folsom Street Fair as an adult in 1999.  I had just moved to San Francisco to attend law school.  I lived in the Tenderloin where there are a lot of little markets but a derth of big grocery stores.  So on a Sunday in September, I hopped on the 19 bus to go to the South of Market Trader Joe’s.  Only the bus didn’t go all the way because there was a street fair.

I had heard of the Folsom Street Fair, and sort of knew what it was about, so I wasn’t shocked when I walked through so I could get to Trader Joe’s.  It’s San Francisco where one expects to see naked men, leather-clad folks, and people on leashes.  I was, however, annoyed that I had to walk instead of take the bus, and that on the way back from the store, I’d have to get through the crowd carrying groceries.

A few years later I went to the Folsom Street Fair with the Ex and a friend.  We went merely to people watch, and I don’t think I bothered to put on an outfit befitting the event.  That year, the alcohol sponsor was Blavod, black vodka that turns a disgusting green color when mixed with pretty much anything.  It also has a stupid-ass name that we had fun saying with a Dracula-like accent.

It was that year that I realized how much fun it is to see people suffer in their outfits.  The end of September is always very warm in San Francisco; it’s in September when we have truly summer weather.  It certainly isn’t July or August when the days are marked by a lot of fog that sometimes burns off in the afternoons.

The people that go to Folsom Street Fair to show off their kinks dress to signify what they’re into.  Some just want to be naked, and those I hope wear sunscreen.  Some like leather – a lot.  As in head-to-toe leather.  Including a hood.  It is these people who crack me the fuck up.  Not because of their kinks, but because they so need to show everyone what they’re into that they will suffer for their exhibitionism.  I’ve seen people covered in leather so that the only thing that could be seen was their eyes, and I could tell even their eyeballs were sweating.

For a few years my sister would come down from Humboldt County and stay with me so she could attend the fair.  Unlike me, my sister loves to get dressed up in costumes and such, and the Folsom Street Fair is a great opportunity to do so.  She’d wear flouncy skirts, corsets, stripey tights, and usually some sort of something in her hair.

She would ask me to go along, but I always declined.  She said I was a prude, and to be fair, I was much more of a prude when I was married, but that is not why I didn’t want to go.  I didn’t want to see my sister’s exhibitionism.  She’s my sister, and I’m just not that comfortable seeing her ass or her tits, and I don’t want to see her get spanked in public – or in private, for that matter.  If that makes me prude, so be it.

When she returned from the fair, she’d always have a lot of photos.  Photos I did not want to see.  Again, I was accused of being prude.  My sister reads my blog, [Hey, sis.] but if the tables were turned, if she had a blog about how she likes to be fucked, I don’t think I’d read it.  As a matter of fact, my sister does have a blog, (that she really should update) and I make it a point not to read the sexy parts.

Last year I volunteered at the Folsom Street Fair.  I went to a volunteer orientation where I was told I was a “floater,” and would probably be doing a number of different things.  I wore a cute outfit that showed off some cleavage and a sexy new bra.  I checked in with the volunteer coordinator, who told me to check in with someone else, who told me I was on trash duty.  So, really, “floater” meant that the job was so shitty that they didn’t want to tell me or I wouldn’t have bothered to show up to volunteer.

It was my job to stand inside a PVC-framed “cage” on which hung three signs, “TRASH,” “RECYCLING,” and “COMPOST.”  I was to direct people to place their refuse in the proper receptacle.  Which would have been fine if people weren’t such assholes.  Unfortunately, I neglected to bring my riding crop, because it would have been very satisfying to thwack people who didn’t know that the cups in which the alcoholic beverages were served were compostable.

Someone said it was good for me if I was into humiliation.  I like being called dirty names as much as the next girl, but having to stand such that my face is covered by a “TRASH” sign does nothing for me.  Also, no one brought me anything to drink and I was too damn poor to get something for myself so I stood there sorting refuse and watching men with tiny cocks walk by, all while completely sober.

This year, I did not volunteer, and I probably wouldn’t have gone except for two things:  the Viking had never been, and some friends had a booth.  Everyone should go to the Folsom Street Fair at least once, so even though the Viking doesn’t like big crowds, I told him we absolutely had to go.  Our friends who run Whore! Magazine had a booth, so that meant we could have a nice base from which to start our people watching.  Also, our friends who run Whore! Magazine, are drinkers, so of course they would be fun to hang out with.

I wore Whore! Magazine tank top as part of my outfit, which this year was not wasted amongst the trash bins.  I was humiliated, however, when I went to a liquor store to buy some ice (we had plenty of alcohol), but was told I couldn’t even stand in line, that I would not be let in the store.  What the fuck?  I’ll admit to having had some drinks, but that is certainly no reason not to take my money.

I went back to the Whore! booth and cried.  So maybe I did have too much to drink, because not being let into a store isn’t the sort of thing that’s cry-worthy.  The Viking bought me ice and the Whores comforted me.

The Viking took a lot of pictures, as many do at the Folsom Street Fair.  It’s actually quite difficult to get a picture that does not itself contain at least one camera.  A few people asked to take my picture because they liked the tank top.  If you’ve seen pictures from Folsom Street Fair, you have a pretty good idea of the views.

I particularly like this photo the Viking took.  I think the man looking at the camera is pretty in a Folsom Street Fair way.

This other photo just poses a whole lot of questions.  Is the blood real?  If so, why, oh, why didn’t the top treat him a little more gently?  Is the blood fake?  If so, why does he want to look like he was ass-raped?  Is he in pain?  Isn’t it unsafe to expose innocent bystanders to his bodily fluids?  Is this a thing, eroticism of bloody briefs?  Does he need medical attention, or just attention?

I swear.  True story.

Yeah, I like the library.  I’ve told the Viking that if we move to Chicago he’ll have to become a member/patron of the local library.  Wherever we move.  The Viking thinks books are obsolete, and considering how much book-length material he can fit on his iPad, he may be right.  But he can’t read the iPad during certain portions of a flight since it’s an electronic device, and one can borrow e-books from libraries these days.

I like libraries.  They’re quiet and peaceful.  The people really do want to help, I think because if they weren’t helping patrons they’d be bored out of their skulls.  It was thanks to a book I was able to get at the library that on the eve of timely filing final paperwork for my divorce that I was able to write a settlement agreement.  I’m an attorney, but I’m not a divorce attorney.  The book saved me a lot of money I didn’t have to pay an attorney with expertise.

I like the way libraries smell.  Books smell good.  Even with electronic books, there’s still something nice about the smell of paper and ink, and the feel of paper stock under fingertips.  There’s something about the sleep-inducing qualities of reading a book in bed.  Or on the couch for that matter – today I fell asleep reading a big hardcover diet book.

Said diet book came into my possession purely by accident.  Well, I did check it out, but it wasn’t my intent to do so.  I read mostly fiction.  I like to escape into another world, which is not to say I like science fiction, because I don’t, especially.  But I do like to read very long books and “live” in them.  There are some exceptions.  For instance, I loved Under the Banner of Heaven even if it did creep me the fuck out.  For the most part, I want some escape when I read.

When I went to the library the other day, I wanted to get a couple of nice, light, fun books to read for a bit of absorbing escapism.  Not that I’m escaping anything, because my life right now is damn great, but getting into a good book is a lot of fun.

I looked at the new books at the Mission Branch.  It’s a rather small library, though I could get any of the books at any of the branches delivered to the Mission Branch if I had planned ahead.  I hadn’t; I just wanted to get what struck me.

A lot of the new fiction looked downright depressing.  No thank you.  I was drawn to a book called Video Slut for obvious reasons.  It looked light and fun, and even though it was non-fiction, I grabbed it.  Then I grabbed a Dominick Dunn book, and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies because, well, I like zombies.  Er, killing them in Plants vs. Zombies.

When I was looking for books there was the ubiquitous crazy person yelling that his attorney was waiting in a squad car.  Had his attorney been arrested?  No, his attorney was a DA.  To avoid that guy, I walked through some rows of shelves rather than through the main part of the library’s second floor.  Right through the diet books.

I figured it was a sign.  I’m trying to eat less and exercise more an all that shit, so I thought checking out a book on practical ways to diet and so on would be good.  I got You on a Diet.  So far the advice is practical, I’ve not learned much more than I already knew, and there are a lot of soon-to-be-, if not already-dated cultural references that will ensure further editions so people who don’t know what the fuck “Baywatch” is will get it.

I’ve been walking Isis a lot more, too.  She’s old, ten, but she likes her walks and she loves frolicking in the park.  When she’s off-leash she’s downright puppy-like.  I used to take her on epic walks – two hours or more with lots of hills and stairs – but she can’t handle those in her old age without significant recovery time.  Now I take her on one hour walks with a few hills and some stairs.  She really likes ‘em and they can’t be bad for me, either.

I swear.  True story.

1:47 AM

9:13 AM

I just couldn’t write lat night.  Lord have mercy.  It happened.  Well, not it but close.  It was after they played – pretty hot show – and we were on our way home.  I was sitting in the middle of the big truck with Henry and Dave on either side of me.  And Dave made the move on me – NOT.  Sorry, joke I thought was particularly funny – don’t ask me why.  So we (Henry and I, of course) were holding hands and he put his and in y lap.  He started to get real busy and eventually got his hand in my pans (with my belt buckled and fly up – don’t ask me how).  then he put my hand in his pants!  But I don’t think I knew what I was doing.  Actually I know I didn’t know what I was doing but I think he could tell.  He wasn’t that big.  Well actually it felt kind of small.  But it’s not the size of the wave, it’s the motion of the ocean.  That’s what they all say but they say but they don’t mean it.  Then again my closest frame of reference is Dan and according to Laura (who I hear is staying longer in San Francisco) who would know about guys says he’s very big – like out of the ordinary big.  Oh and the whole time he was driving and Dave was on the other side of me.  That was the most embarrassing ’cause he said something about my breathing.  Henry has such soft arms – the skin.  I think I should tell him I didn’t don’t know what I was doing so he doesn’t think I thought I did and I’m just terribly bad.  During the show I kept staring at him but this scary dyke chick with a mohawk, a tattoo on the side of her head, her nose pierced in the middle, and a cammoflague [sic] jacket with studs thought I was looking at her so she kept turning around to look at me but as I continued to look past her, she realized I was looking at Henry – a male of the species. Oh.  I have to got to work and then tomorrow I get to sunbathe.

Henry –

I want to see you but not only because of sex.  That confirmed everything I wanted to know but I’ve always wanted to see you more often than we do.  Maybe now I’m willing to tell you because you’ve gotten in too.  I’m not saying anything like spending all free time together or – shit.  I want to be able to tell you I want to see you and I like you without worrying if you feel the same way.  I don’t want to play any games and I don’t want there to be any need for lies.  Dont you like kissing?  Do you think I’m a good kisser?