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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

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.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

My friend and Alexa communicated quite a bit.  Eventually, Alexa referred a client to my friend.  According to Alexa, the client, Matt, liked being a girl’s first professional fuck.  Alexa, having been a pro for some time, claimed she still saw this client occasionally, because she was such a great fuck, and he was such a great client, but he had a special place in his heart for new pros.

He didn’t live in the Bay Area, but was often here on business according to Alexa.  Just before she was to meet the client, my friend received the following email from Alexa:

Subject: Matt

Hey, there, gorgeous.  ;-)I thought I’d pass along some info on Matt, the client I’ve referred to you. I usually provide this kind of info to other girls I refer clients to, and since you’re playing whore, I thought I’d afford you the same courtesy.

Anyway, let’s see.  He’s white, in his mid 40s, about 5’10″ maybe. Short brown hair with a mustache.  He’s in good shape, but not athletic.  He’s about 6 inches long – average sized cock.  *Really* nice ass and legs (though he says he doesn’t run, he has runner’s legs).  He used to be a leg model for some sportswear company and still has the legs to do that as far as I’m concerned.  He’s got a unique tan line, which you’ll see.  lol   He doesn’t drink to any serious degree and doesn’t smoke.

He typically pops (cums) two or three times during a session depending on what kind of mood he’s in.  Sometimes he won’t cum at all, but that doesn’t bother him.  Seriously.  In fact, it’s not uncommon at all for him to not pop during the first session with a new girl, so be prepared for that and don’t take it personally.  He really enjoys the play for itself and isn’t upset at all if he doesn’t cum.

He’s an excellent kisser – one of my better clients in that area.  He also really knows how to eat ass – probably my best client for that.  He does okay going down on me.  He loves grabbing your hair and fucking your face, and with his cock only being 6 inches long, it’s not hard to let him have at it.  He’s the kind if you give him permission to treat you like a porn whore, he’ll do it – including the dirty talk.

He’ll test your limits if you want him to – slapping you, spitting on you, spanking you.  He can really dirty with you, too.  He’s into water sports, for example.  So you’ll be the one setting the limits – don’t do anything you don’t want to do (or don’t want to try to do).  And let him know – he’ll absolutely respect your boundaries without an issue.  He’ll also ask you if you have a safe word, so if you don’t, think of one (I use “yellow” as a warning, and “red” as a full stop).  During the sex if he’s hurting oyu or doing something you don’t like, just use the safe word and he’ll stop instantly.  He’s very good about that.

When you’re not being sexual, he treats you very nicely – very kind and considerate.  He’ll enjoy talking to you about just almost anything.  He’s very laid back and has a really neat sense of humor – really just a perfect client in my book.  I don’t think I could provide you with a better guy for your first professional lay.  :p

If you want to know anything else about him, let me know. I think that covers the basics.  I can’t wait to hear what you think of it – not him specifically but actually being paid to fuck.  ;-)

~Alexa

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued.]

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

Through reliable (read, tech savvy) sources, I had heard almost a year ago that Alexa clearly was not local:  something about IP addresses.  I have no clue how this is done, but I’ve asked the Viking to figure out where a comment to this very blog came from based solely on the IP address of the commenter, and before I knew it he had a Google Maps Street View image of the very car the Ex and I bought back in 2003.  The Ex’s girlfriend was “anonymously” commenting here and asking questions via Formspring.  While I knew it was her, I had no proof, until the Viking showed me that picture.  One tweet indicating I knew where they lived and the harassment stopped.

Funny how when one is exposed one stops doing what one should not have been doing in the first place.  Which is exactly what happened with Alexa.  Now that she’s been outed as not only a he –but also with a name, a location, and an employer – her site no longer exists.  Thank you, Expose a Bro.

I had also heard through reliable sources that there was no way Alexa Di Carlo was in a graduate program in human sexuality anywhere in San Francisco.  And this is where Expose a Bro messed up a bit, because Alexa never claimed she was going to UCSF, which educates solely in the medical and biomedical fields.  She claimed to be getting a masters at San Francisco State, which does have a Department of Sexuality Studies that offers a Master of Arts degree.

However, because San Francisco is such a small city, and the area of sexuality education – be it public (state school) or private (e.g., Good Vibrations, Center for Sex and Culture) – even smaller (really, everyone knows everyone else in sexy San Francisco), all it took was some minimal asking around (not on my part) and it was clear there was no one who fit the description of Alexa Di Carlo was getting any sort of sexuality education in San Francisco.

“Alexa” really liked San Francisco, and often tweeted about various happenings in the city as if she attended them, or they affected her in some way.  I recall that she thought it was funny that the neighborhood in which she lived had been renamed.  She also claimed to go out to lesbian clubs and pick up women for one-night stands within minutes.  Oh, there are all sorts of things she claimed to have done, like meet a guy in a parking structure near SF Museum of Modern Art with the sole purpose of having him come on her face.

I’ve had my face come on plenty and trust me, there are way easier ways than placing an ad on Craig’s List to have a stranger do it in a parking structure.  Which isn’t to say I wasn’t one of the many duped people, because I certainly did “believe” some of the writing.

And then I met someone who said she had met Alexa.  I had no reason not to believe her; really, what’s the point of saying you had met someone you hadn’t?  She said she had also seen a video of Alexa dancing at at strip club, though she said “dancing” was taking it a bit far since Alexa was pretty clumsy.

My friend (for lack of a better term) communicated with Alexa online (of course) about the professional fucking business.  My friend was considering supplementing her income as well as get a thrill out of fucking, which she liked anyway, and getting a wad of cash.  All the advice about entering into escorting says to talk to people who are already doing it, and, because it is illegal, it’s actually better to communicate in person.  My friend never met Alexa (of course), but she did meet another local escort through Alexa.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued.]

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

I don’t think I have a right to be this happy.  I’m overwhelmed.  He said he couldn’t get me out of his head.  That’s not all.  God, I I deserve this?  I feel so good.  And it will end soon.  But I can enjoy for now. He moved out when he was sixteen – I didn’t know that.  There’s a lot about him I don’t know but I’m going to learn eventually.  He said he thought I was “a babe” the first time he saw me.  That’s so sweet.  And he likes my body.  He says I’m in good shape – yep, we’ll keep the illusion until I actually am.  He has a cold and sore throat so his voice was all scratchy and he sounded quite different than usual.  And the conversation we had was different too.  Is this right?  Everything has gone how I’ve wanted it to – that in itself seems so strange to me.  I just realized that it might seem as though he came over.  He did not.  His car broke down.  I’m hungry.  He talked about his father – in the present tense.  I didn’t know what to do or what to say so I said nothing.  Someday we’ll talk about it but I have to be ready too.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

At the time I sent the RSVP for the celebration of Alex and Brendan’s relationship, I thought the Viking and I would already live in Chicago.  I was excited to come back to a city I love very much, but as a tourist.  And I was looking forward to the hotel sex.

It’s a good thing the Viking never booked the flights or the hotel rooms, though, because by the time the party came around we were still living in San Francisco.  No matter, it worked out rather well, since the party location was walking distance from our place in the Mission.

In addition to the celebration, there were some other events planned around it, just like any wedding.  There was a brunch with Alex, and there were cocktails the night before the party – a rehearsal dinner without a rehearsal or a dinner.

I hadn’t seen Alex or our mutual friends from law school for a few years.  I had gone through a period of being rather unfun to be around.  I decided to not subject my friends to me when I didn’t even want to be around me; I would have talked about my misery and I learned first-hand that my misery was boring as shit.

So when I received the emails about Alex’s “bachelor” brunch and the day-before cocktail event, I was quite happy.  I was eager to get together with Alex, of course, but also our mutual law school buddies.  Because I was no longer a pain in the ass to be around.

I confirmed meeting for Alex’s “bachelor” brunch.  It was conveniently close to my house so it wasn’t difficult for me to make it to the restaurant at 10am.  Mornings aren’t my strong suit.

Alex was there, of course, as was another close friend from law school and his partner, and a woman I’d not met before who endeared herself to me when she told me how she quit a law firm I used to work for several years ago.  She quit without notice via an email to the boss on a Saturday.  That may not seem like a big deal, but I’m sure it was the case that there was a lot of scrambling to notify clients and to figure out exactly what work she had been doing.  The boss was an ass, and had been an ass to me when I worked for the firm.

Turned out there were a few people who couldn’t show for the brunch due to illness.  That meant there was an extra seat.  Everyone agreed that I should call the Viking and have him join us.

The Viking is so nice and pleasant to be around that of course everyone liked him right away.  We had a really tasty brunch and then the Viking took his leave; he said I should catch up with my friends.

So the three guys and I went back to the couple’s house to figure out what we were going to do next.  The original plan had been to go to the Academy of Sciences to do some nerding out.  Then there was the possibility of the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival.  They had cars so our possibilities were open.  Not having a car means it takes a shit-ton of time to get around even tiny little San Francisco.

We couldn’t make a decision on something major to do so we opted to drive to a bar.  There, we did some talking (ok, I did a lot of talking) and some drinking.  Actually, three of us did some drinking, with Alex just doing a bit of sipping; just before we left I finished the remaining two-thirds of Alex’s drink.

Then Alex had to go home.  I said goodbye and told him I’d see him the following week.

The remaining three of us went back to the couple’s house where my law school friend packed for a work trip and his partner and I drank some more.  Then, when we ran out of booze, we drove to Trader Joe’s to get some more.

The partner had been to culinary school so when it came time to eat, the meal was, of course, fabulous.

Finally, my drunk ass caught a bus.  Unfortunately, my drunk ass was out of it when it came time for me to change buses.  My drunk ass realized I’d missed my stop so I hopped off the bus.  Well, hopped off the bus and fell on the ground.  In the Tenderloin.  The streets in the ‘Loin are not clean and there I was on my hands and knees.

I’m not altogether sure how I got home, but I obviously did.  It involved a lot of walking and possibly another bus.  The next day I had a scrape on my right elbow, a bruise on my left knee, and overall body aches.

I again saw the folks the following Friday.  [To be continued.]

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

It would have been really cool if she cross-stitched something like this, though in my house it wouldn’t have been seen as a positive thing.  I’ve gotten over that.  I’ve a dirty whorish mouth and that’s a good thing.

I also have a dirty whorish mind.  Which also wasn’t considered a good thing when I was growing up.  Not that there was any overt slut-shaming in my household – my sister was appropriately taken to Planned Parenthood when she became sexually active – but neither was reveling in the wonder that is human sexuality – masturbation was not discussed at all.

So if anyone out there wants to practice his/her cross-stitching skills, this lovely piece would make a great model for your work.

I swear.  True story.

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.

When I moved to northern California to go to college, I kept on drinking, but at a slower pace.  Not because I had to study – I went to junior college the whole time I worked at Q’s – but because I didn’t have access to free booze.

But the boyfriend (later the Ex) did like drinking.  He had trouble making friends, having lived either with or down the street from his sisters his whole adult life, so we tried to have people over for dinner we thought could be our friends.  It didn’t always work out.  One coworker he had over overindulged in cheap beer to the point I had to ask the Ex to get him the hell out of the house.

We tried to befriend the Ex’s boss, and even went to his place for at least one dinner-and-a-movie night, but he turned out to be rather nutty.  I was really shy, and we didn’t live on campus, or even in Berkeley (we lived in Oakland), so it was difficult to have acquaintances over.

The Ex and I built up our own bar.  We had proper wine glasses, and buckets (rocks glasses), and highballs.  Of course we had a cocktail shaker.  And some margarita salt.  That’s what we made a lot of back in the late 1990s in that little apartment on 33rd in Oakland, margaritas.  On the rocks, with salt, please.

We didn’t go out to bars very much when I was in college.  Partly because we didn’t have any money, but also because we didn’t want to drink and drive.  On a big night out we’d take BART over to “the City” (a term that still makes me cringe), but on the weekends BART stops running about midnight, which I think just encourages drunk driving since bars don’t close until 2am.

Fast forward to law school.  By this time I lived in San Francisco.  The first year of law school there were a lot of efforts to get classmates to know each other.  One was to have everyone in the same section (five sections in our class) have every single class together.  Another was to have a multitude of social events.  Social events that inevitably included trips to local bars.

Because I worked a lot of nights when I was in college, I didn’t have much of a chance to do the usual college bar hopping.  Once I was at university, I was older, and worked even more nights – only not at a bar, I worked for the campus police department on 11pm to 6am shifts.  Working the first year of law school was verboten.  That meant that even though there was a shit ton of studying to do, and I attended every class, there was also plenty of time to drink.

My law school is in the Tenderloin, where there are plenty of bars, and even more dive bars.  There are some bars that are between dive bars and nicer places.  Temple Bar was such a place.  Irish pub in nature, including having Irish bartenders and Irish patrons, I supposed because they felt comfortable ordering beer from someone who could understand them.

One night a few of us were at Temple Bar having some drinks when we happened upon a guy with an Irish accent.  I said to him – mostly aware of what it would lead to – that I had once fucked a guy solely because of his accent.  The Irish chap perked up.  I assured him that it was true.

Before long, we were walking the few blocks to my apartment.  The apartment in which I lived alone because my husband was still living in southern California with our dog so I could concentrate on studying.

It was less than three months after I got married that I was on my knees just inside the front door to my apartment with the Irish guy’s cock in my mouth.

I swear.  True story.

[To be continued.]

©2010 Random Rim Jobs. All Rights Reserved.