Random Rim Jobs

I didn’t realize today was Halloween – though I knew it was the last day of October – until I took Isis out and ran into my neighbors who had set up a trick-or-treat station at my building’s front porch area.  Halloween doesn’t do much for me.

I loved it when I was a kid, of course.  My mother would drive me to the nicer part of town (Santa Rosa) where I’d clean up candywise.  There was even an old lady in a huge Victorian who gave out hot apple cider.  Though my mother was well aware of potential dangers, she was assured by the nice old lady that said cider contained no toxic contaminants.

Around junior high school I began to feel costume pressure.  My step-mother performed in quite a few ballet productions so she had costumes that not only fit me, but were easy to move in, so for a few years I was a nun.  One year I was a nerd, which meant I wore glasses, my dad’s clothes, and my neck gear, which I had before worn only when not at school.  That ended up backfiring because I was definitely teased thereafter.

By high school the pressure was to have a cool costume that was sexy but not too sexy.  I failed.  So I stopped bothering to try.

As an adult I’ve been invited to plenty of Halloween parties.  Problem is, I think of really great costumes around the first week of November, and then by the third week of October the following year, I don’t remember.  I would rather wear no costume than a lame costume.

I met the Ex not long after Halloween 1996.  He showed me his costume, which was sort of a scare-a-crow, sort of a robot, sort of a friend of animals.  (He had a small stuffed squirrel toy affixed to his arm for some reason.)  Even he didn’t know what the fuck it was.  I chalked it up to another one of the goofy things about him, like his inability to tell a joke, and thought it was cute.  But I knew it was lame.

There were the years I worked at a bar when I was encouraged to dress up, but not so I couldn’t be recognized – for security purposes.  One year I dressed as an 80s Valley Girl chick complete with pink sweatshirt sans collar a la Flashdance, pumps with big socks in which my pegged jeans were tucked, blue eyeshadow, and zinc pink lipstick.  Sad thing was, very few people saw it as a costume.  I was offended.

So I don’t do Halloween any more.  I really don’t see the point.  I’m not one for costumes of any kind.  I dated a guy with whom I had extremely bad sex.  Really, he will probably stand out as the shittiest sex I’ve ever had – once I knew what I was doing.  In an effort to spice up our horrible sex life, he suggested I dress up in sexy costumes.  I didn’t see the point.  If he wanted to fuck, we should have just fucked; wearing a costume wouldn’t have changed the fact that the sex was lame.

I also don’t bother dressing up too much for other parties or things like the Folsom Street Fair.  I just don’t have the energy to bother with all of that.

Happy Halloween.

I swear.  True story.

I’ve lived in San Francisco for 11 years.  I know we have the 49ers (football) and the Giants (baseball).  We do not have basketball, though the Warriors play over in Oakland, where there are also the A’s (baseball) and the Raiders (football).  (By the way, those parenthetical references are notes for me, because I’m sure y’all know and care about such stupidity, er, information.)

I’ve lived here for over a decade.  I’ve been to a Warriors game.  I could have seen better on tv than I did from my seats in the nosebleed section, and I almost didn’t get into the Coliseum because I said, “No one wants to blow up the Warriors” when I wasn’t allowed in with the bag I had with me when I took BART to the game from work that day.  I’ve also been to one Giants’ game.  There wasn’t enough liquor; I don’t drink beer.

Overall, sporting events are wasted on me.  Either live or televised.  When I worked in a bar, Q’s, in Pasadena when the World Cup took place at the Rose Bowl (1994) I realized just how much sports were wasted on me.  The bar was full of people, both local and from the countries of teams that were in the finals – Italy and Brazil.  I remember thinking it was rather silly that all those Brazilians and Italians had bothered to come to Pasadena even though they didn’t have tickets to the actual games – they could have watched the games on tv just as easy at home as they did from Q’s, which was a mere few miles from the Rose Bowl.

The Italians and the Brazilians segregated themselves and yelled across the triangle-shaped bar (like a rack for setting up a game of pool), “Ee-TAL-ya!” and “Bra-ZIL-ya!”  It was incredibly silly.

Then, when I was in Thailand my first time, the Ex felt the need to wake up at odd hours just so he could watch the Lakers on tv.  I stayed in bed.

And now, the Giants have won something that allowed them to move on to the World Series.  Apparently, just getting this far is a pretty big deal, something that hadn’t been done since 2002.  Like I said, I don’t give a shit about sports and hadn’t any clue about anything of that sort until very recently, when I saw a news story that said the first time the Giants had been so far was 2002.

And I saw that back in 2002 – the year I graduated from law school, the year I took and passed the California Bar Exam – the Giants “got the pennant” but they didn’t go so far as to win the World Series.  Apparently that distinction has eluded them for 58 years.  I should root for them, right?  I know I want a local team to win over a Texas team, especially a Texas team that as anything to do with George W. Bush.

Today I walked Isis.  The city seemed empty, except when I walked by bars, which were full of cheering Gigantes fans.  I’m rooting for them in my own way.

I swear.  True story.

7:58 P.M.

It’s still light out.  Rachel called today and left a message but I didn’t call her back ’cause I just didn’t feel like talking to her.  I would, however, like to talk to Henry – who I haven’t spoken with since Thursday evening.  I think I would like to have sex with him.  Mother said that I don’t know what a real orgasm is – I assured her that I do.  She thinks I only think I know what one is.  Well, she can trust me.  Masturbation helps.  I admit that at first I wasn’t having them but still thought I enjoyed sex.  Now I know that there’s more.  I just don’t want to have to fake it with Henry.  I don’t like being on the rag at all.  If I’m off by Wednesday, we’re going to Planned Parenthood so I can go on the Pill.  Then I’ll be on the rag every 28 days – now that’s yucky.  But I won’t have to worry about any unnecessary problems that on average last about nine months.

Henry said he’s glad I’m not the type of girl who dates a lot.  I don’t think he’s even seen anyone else since he met me and he said he’d feel guilty if he did.  But I’ve had sex with two other people and kissed one.  Should I tell him?  Would it only cause unnecessary problems?  But I’d like to come clean.  I’ll ask him if – if it happens in the future – he’d want to know.

I want things to be consistent.  I don’t want you to be scared of your feelings for me or of me.  I would never intentionally hurt you.  I like you.  I like being with you.  I want us to be more.  I wonder why you haven’t called me and why you were so funny on the phone on Thursday.  (Because Dave was there?)  God, I like you so much.  I think about you all the time and it makes me feel good.  I wonder what you’re afraid of.  I want to know everything about you.  What can I do for you?  Why won’t you let me in?  What has happened to you in the past?  I’m harmless – I swear.  I want so much just to be with you.  Have I done something wrong?  You make me so happy – I just want to do the same for you.

I thought I’d make it easy for ol’ Pat/Matt to find me since I’m one of “the dozen or so other people who’ve posted my name on their personal blogs.”  After all, he claimed in his October 25, 2010 post (which has since been removed) (wholly posted courtesy of aaagblog.com) that he was seeking legal counsel:

I have an appointment with an attorney Tuesday [October 26, 2010] morning. We’re going to see what my legal options are against the chicken shits who built the blog above [Expose A Bro].  If I can find out who you are, I promise you I will sue you for so much your fucking great grandchildren will be paying for it.  You’ve cost me a job and a great deal of public embarrassment, and I don’t intend to sit back and let it happen without a fight.  That goes for the Charlie Glickmans and the dozen or so other people who’ve posted my name on their personal blogs as a part of this as well.  I find it ludicrous that so many people are whining about some supposed damage Alexa did when a handful of people are outright destroying another person’s life based on some circumstantial evidence (most of them hiding behind names that aren’t theirs it seems).  But then hypocrisy seems to be the order of the day for a lot of people nowadays.

Thanks for listening.  I’ll also say that I don’t care if you believe me or not, that’s not even relevant at this stage of the game.  Even if everyone who read this did, the damage is already done.  But I am going to pursue legal action against anyone I can connect with this even if I have to take out a second mortgage on my house to do it.

Oh, Pat, you are so naive!  Should you pursue legal action against the many, many anonymous and not-so-anonymous bloggers who have posted anything you may consider to be libelous, you would not only have to take out a second mortgage, you would also be bankrupt and destitute.

Lawyers are expensive.  I should know, I am one.  This is not the type of case a lawyer will take on contingency (that means they’ll wait to take the money on the back end).  Instead, you would have to pay for every hour of your attorney’s time.  A decent lawyer shouldn’t charge less than $200 per hour.  You pay less and you can expect less.

But good luck finding all of us.  I’m certainly not hard to find, nor is Charlie Glickman, but there are many, many bloggers out there who have picked up on this story of a guy who has so much time on his hands that he makes up several aliases and (sort of) keeps them all straight.

What, exactly, would you get from us, once found?  Money, you say?  How?  You would have to prove that our libelous actions, which made you look bad, caused you a measurable loss, such as loss of job or business.  Considering you said you lost your job before many (if not all) of us posted anything about you (my first post with your name was posted on Saturday, October 23, 2010, which I doubt was a day when a government agency conducted business), I’m not sure how you’re going to do that.  Another problem is that you lost your job through your own actions, i.e., conducting non-work-related business at work.  You’ve said so yourself.

But I’m not sure what you think is so libelous here.  We say you and Alexa and Matt are the same person.  So fucking what?  You’ve already admitted that you engaged in illegal activities, i.e., hiring professional escorts to engage in sexual relations with you:

I have spoken with Alexa at length on the phone in the past and she is a female, or sounds like one at least.   She did offer to refer me to other escorts when I expressed an interest in seeing one just to see what it was like.  I created a little blog where I put up a torso photo and described the kind of sex I enjoyed with women based on her suggestion.  I did not know she was bypassing any protocols or rules or anything by doing that for me.  As a point of fact, I have only met with one person she referred me to.  So I’m not sure where all of these women who are claiming I was with them on a referral from her are coming from.  Anyone who makes such a claim should be forced to produce evidence that I was physically there.  Yes, there have been intents to do so and some communications back and forth between myself and several women, but only once have I met with one.  That woman appears to be posting as “M” in a couple of places and is actually providing details of what we did and making up conversations that we supposedly had.  It’s almost as if everyone is trying to outdo everyone else. I do appreciate the fact that she at least acknowledged I treated her well.

And here is where you’ve really fucked up, because I know someone who fucked you – for money.  She talked to me at length about you.  And guess what?  She showed me your blog and she told me that that photo is most definitely you.  Guess what you just did, above?  You admitted that you, Pat are the same person as Matt, the person with the blog who fucked my friend – as a financial transaction.

So the only way you could get anywhere was to prove that you are not Alexa.  If you can do that what does it do for you?  Nothing.  Because no one has said anything about Alexa because she doesn’t exist, everything has been said about you.  And what we said was only that Pat/Matt/Alexa are the same person who acted as escort referral – Alexa (admitted by you) – and escort client – Matt (also admitted by you).

Finally, if Alexa truly exists (and has that female-sounding voice) then where the fuck is she?  She’s a big asshole for letting you, her lowly webmaster, take the fall.  If she did exist, simply accusing you of impersonating her does little measurable harm to your career, as you would have to prove that there are employers who, but for your internet reputation of being her, would have hired you and paid you a certain amount.

I’m guessing that whatever lawyer with whom you met told you as much.  If not, you’re welcome for the free legal advice.

It’s probably time for you to slink away with your fraudulent tail between your legs.  Also, learn how to use semi-colons; they’re your friends.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Alcohol (Part 9)."]

By the time law school was over, I had developed quite an alcohol tolerance.  I had also spent plenty of mornings feeling shitty due to the overindulgences of the nights before.  When it came time for me to study for the California Bar Exam, however, I made an executive decision:  I would not drink, at all.

I decided that if I didn’t pass the Bar I wanted to know that it was because I wasn’t smart enough, or didn’t study enough, or something else, just not because I was too hung over.  Or too drunk.  I didn’t want to be able to blame alcohol or anything else but myself for not passing the Bar.

So for about three months I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol.  Instead, I went to Bar review courses.  And studied.  And stayed home alone.  Somewhat ironic that I stopped drinking for the sake of a bar.

I stayed home alone despite the fact that I was at that time a married woman.  While my then-husband and I didn’t live together for a few months just before and after our wedding ceremony, by the time I finished law school we were living together in a 425-square-foot one-bedroom apartment in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, and had been for a couple of years.  Of course, it is natural for a married couple to live together.

And it may be somewhat unnatural for a married couple to agree to socialize separately.  I had announced to the Ex that I wouldn’t be drinking for the summer and that he was welcomed – encouraged even – to go out without me.  After all, there was no reason for him to suffer because I had to study for three months.

By that time the Ex had finally made some friends.  Actually, he had made one friend, and through him and his friends, made some other friends.  The one friend was thanks to me.  The one friend I had introduced to the Ex.  The one friend I had known longer than I knew the Ex.  Coincidentally, I met them both at the same place, the bar where I worked, Q’s.  It was a complete coincidence also, that we all lived in San Francisco.

They hit it off immediately, which was good, because the Ex hadn’t been doing well making friends on his own and didn’t like my law school buddies all that much (and to be truthful, some of them were pretentious asses).  So when I didn’t go out, the Ex had plenty of company to go out every weekend.

On weekend nights I also relaxed, but not by going out drinking, or even staying in drinking.  On weekend nights I gave myself permission to give my brain a rest; I watched television.  I watched whatever I wanted; it was nice not to have to consider what the Ex wanted to see.  I just vegged out.

Thinking back, that period – when I hung out alone and the Ex went out and did his own thing – may have given us both an idea that we liked being apart more than together.

I took the Bar Exam, which was three days of testing hell.  After the third day, a bunch of people went out drinking in downtown Oakland, which is where the exam was held.  I went with them, but once in the bar I didn’t feel like drinking.

It was a strange feeling.  I had told myself I could drink as much as I wanted after the test was over and yet I didn’t want to.

Of course I began drinking again eventually … (to be continued.)

I swear.  True story.

Over the past several days I’ve had one shower and worn two sets of pajamas.  I let y’all know not to turn you on (though I bet it is turning some of you on, isn’t it?) but as a preface to what I’ve been going through.

The other day I woke up feeling as if I had a cold coming on.  Immediately, the Viking went to the corner store and bought some vitamin C-infused juice as well as a bushel of oranges with which he could make naturally-vitamin C-infused juice.  (The Viking has a fancy juicer he’ll pull out if the j-word is mentioned.)

He brought me juice.  He brought me tissues.  He took out the dog.  He brought me water.  He brought me more juice.  I was very well hydrated.  Unfortunately, I had to go to the bathroom myself since it was my bladder that all those fluids were filling.

He took very good care of me.  I was beginning to feel better and thought that I might just have the world’s shortest cold thanks to rest, relaxation, fluids, and vitamin C.  I’m a very lucky girl.

And then the next morning I felt yucking again.  Oh, I should clarify, though I don’t know that it matters that much:  “morning” in this case was about 3pm.  That’s when I got up, so that was “morning” to me and my body.  I had gotten plenty of sleep; I expected to wake up refreshed and healthy.

But it was not to be.  Again/still, I felt snotty and coughy.  The Viking brought me vitamin C-packed fluids in bed.  He took out the dog.  I was feeling ok cold-wise, but still not 100%.

Then I started to feel a sadly familiar twinge in my back.  I get muscle spasms in my back, around my shoulder blades and up to my neck.  They happen on one side or the other, never both (which is a clue if someone is faking back pain – nothing is ever bilateral with legitimate back injury).  I stayed in bed, thinking it might go away.

No such luck.  In the past I’ve gotten said spasms from washing my hair (arms up above my head), or other such non-activities.  This time, I don’t know what did it considering I was taking it easy – in bed.  Nonetheless, the pain was there and it was getting worse.  I pulled out my heating pad, which I use specifically for this purpose now that I don’t get menstrual cramps.  The heating pad has helped a bit, but last night while sleeping with it on the affected area, I still tossed and turned – painfully.

The heating pad helped, some, but as I write this – over 36 hours since the onset of the pain – it still hurts to move too quickly, to turn my head to either side, or to do much of anything with my left arm.  This means I can’t wash my own hair, and it hurts to take my clothes off.

So I took some muscle relaxants.  I’m not much for prescription drugs (or drugs of any kind, kids, save alcohol) but I’m in some serious pain here.  I’m even considering mixing said muscle relaxants with some alcohol – which is not advised – just so I can have some relief from the pain.  For now, I’ve not had any alcohol for a few days, and I took the muscle relaxants on a fully belly (of my damn yummy turkey chili) so it will take a while for them to do their job.

Because I really would like to take another shower.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Alexa Di Carlo (Part 2)." ]

My friend did fuck Matt.  She said he was a nice guy who was decent in bed, but that he couldn’t eat pussy for shit.  Of course we now know that “Matt” is actually Alexa, who is actually Thomas “Pat” Bohannan.

He described himself pretty well, if this is actually a photo of him.  Of course the description is a little wordy, which is my problem overall with Alexa’s writing on her blog.  That, and she didn’t know how to use a semi-colon.  At least that’s what I surmised from the evidence; she never used any semi-colons.

Also, her blog looked gross, with all the girly writing.  I guess when one is pretending to be a woman, one does what one thinks a woman would do.  And what’s up with calling herself a “real princess”?  Mr. Bohannan’s Alexa character was a caricature of a woman:  She had been getting Brazilian waxes since she was a teen; she seduced female classmates when she was in high school; she liked impact play, gang bangs, water sports, humiliation, anal sex, throat fucking; and of course she was bisexual.

I find it interesting that “she” was interested in her experience in getting paid to fuck.  On her blog she often related stories from others who saw her clients when she wasn’t able to do so.  Of course her clients were all Mr. Bohannan himself who was pumping the first-time escorts for information about their experiences so he, as she, could write more accurately about the escorting experience.

Alexa would also relate both sides of a story of an escort and a john.  I’m sure she really got the stories from the escorts, and then relayed his own story as the client.  Only Alexa would say she was relating the story second-hand.

My friend and “Matt” continued to communicate.  And my friend began to communicate better with me.  She hadn’t actually met Alexa, she had fucked someone who had fucked Alexa.  Oh, that’s way different.

Meeting someone in person and fucking someone who had fucked someone are two very different things.  I fucked someone who told me he fucked Carrie Otis (they both grew up in Marin County), but that does not mean I’ve met Carrie Otis.  I have never met Carrie Otis.

My friend never met Alexa.  However, according to Matt, who had fucked Alexa, she had a great ass.  I guess while you’re making up fictional characters you might as well give them attributes you admire.

My friend told me Matt was coming to town and he wanted to have a threesome with two girls.  Because Alexa’s rates were so high (this is one of the things she asserted all the time, that she was very expensive and had an exclusive clientele), he couldn’t afford her and another girl, but he could afford my friend and another girl.  She asked me if I wanted to join.

I like fucking, and I really don’t see any reason why fucking for money should be illegal.  But it is.  And I’m a lawyer.  I can get in more trouble than the average person should I be caught breaking the law.  Well, not more trouble, but I’d have more consequences that would include disciplinary action by the California State Bar.

But I like fucking so I told my friend that if she was in a pickle and couldn’t find anyone else that I’d be a sex volunteer.  There’s nothing wrong with giving it away for free.

I just got a text from M and his trip to SF has been delayed, I figured as much. ;(

That solved that problem.  Then Matt asked my friend if she was available for him to fly her out to Philadelphia, where he was going to be on business.  That one fell through, too.

I never met Alexa/Matt/Thomas, but I fucked someone who fucked her/him/him.

I swear.  True story.