Archive for March, 2010

I don’t have regrets. Well, there’s nothing I feel like I’ve not at least had an opportunity to learn from. I’d like to think I learn enough not to repeat something that has resulted in shit.

I regret not something I’ve done, but the fact that I knew something my friend had done.

My friend and I worked together. Our boss was – to me at least – a father figure. I could not picture him in any sort of sexual situation. He made jokes with sexual innuendo and he dated various women, both customer and employee, but I couldn’t help but think of him as an unsexy old man. I think he was all of 40 at the time.

I thought my friend felt the same until she told me that she and he had been having an ongoing sexual affair for some time. I simply did not believe her. I didn’t want to believe her.

Rather than letting it go – rather than let me believe that they hadn’t fucked, which is what I so desperately wanted – she tried to convince me. With details. I was young – in my late teens. I hadn’t yet learned not to ask questions to which I don’t really, really, really want to know the answers.

So I asked.  And she told me.  She told me where they had fucked.  She reminded me of various times the three of us had been together and I had stepped out of the room, where they would then be all over each other.  She reminded me of several such situations.

I was not only grossed out, but I felt very stupid.  There were so many obvious signs I had completely missed.

I was incredulous exactly because I had missed so much that was so obvious.  So I asked more questions.  She had to give me minute details as a way to prove it was actually true.  Also, I was being a bit voyeuristic.

I thought it was titillating as well as disgusting that they had fucked.  It took me quite a long time – way longer than it should have – for me to stop asking questions.  I finally got my fill of salacious details.

Things had most definitely changed.  I felt weird being in a room with either my boss or my friend, and most definitely with the two of them together.  I scrutinized them to distraction; it took me longer to count down my drawer at the end of the night.  I worked as a hostess at a bar at the time.  The cash register drawer I counted down was for the 27 pool tables the bar’s patrons paid hourly to rent.

I couldn’t help but look at both my boss and my friend as strangers.  I thought I knew them, but they were keeping this huge secret from me.  I didn’t fuck my friend any more after that.  Oh yeah, I had been fucking my friend.  Not much, probably just a couple of fucks and one or two make-out sessions.  But not after she’d been with … him.

Him, who I could no longer respect.  I thought he was smarter than to fuck one of his employees, and certainly smarter than fucking one of his employees so much younger than he.  But then I supposed after his divorce he had gone a little nuts and didn’t have the best judgment after his wife had cheated on him.  [No, I did not have any idea my own life would be mirroring his several years later.]  I knew she had cheated on him because I saw his wife kissing someone right there on the bar’s dance floor, and I told him.

But after I found out he had fucked my friend, his employee, I didn’t tell him much of anything.  When he told me I shouldn’t go to college – that I should continue to work in a bar – I didn’t value his opinion much, and figured it was purely selfish because I did a good job, not out of any desire to actually give me sound advice.

At least a year after I stopped working for him – I decided that I should go to college – I testified against him in a sexual harassment arbitration hearing.  I don’t know if he sexually harassed the woman who accused him in that case, but I do know that I was disappointed that he behaved in such a way that made a sexual harassment lawsuit a possibility.  (Not that there aren’t frivolous lawsuits.)

I talked to the friend again several years later.  She was still working for the boss, but they had long before stopped fucking.

Now, of course I’d be much less judgmental of the two, and hopefully a bit more observant of what were probably some damn obvious signs, but I was still disappointed them.  And I regret I found out they fucked at all.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Party, Part 1."]

The hippie chick put on the strap-on.  She walked around the party and went up to all the men demanding that they suck it.  It was hilarious.  Most of them gave it a try … a sad, sad try.  Finally I had to show them how it was done.  I sucked her cock for a few minutes.  According to the members of the audience, I did an excellent-looking job.

One of the ladies at the party was very drawn to the strap-on harness.  She asked the hippie chick if she could borrow it.  The hippie chick acquiesced and handed it over.  The rest of us went to the bedroom and left the woman to use the strap-on with her boyfriend.

Back in the bedroom the host suggested that when the strap-on was free that the hippie chick should fuck me with it.  That sounded like a lot of fun.  In the mean time the hippie couple, the host, and I fooled around on the bed.

The hippie guy and I began to explore each other.  He discovered my clit; he spent a significant amount of time fingering it very slowly and very steadily.  So long that the couple who had been using the strap-on returned from their ministrations, and sat, and watched as the hippie guy fingered my clit.  When I finally came – from clitoral stimulation alone – it was loud, and wonderful.  The observers congratulated the hippie guy for eliciting such a response from me.

The party’s host continued to insist that the hippie chick fuck me with the strap-on.  However, we were too distracted doing other things to get right down to it.  I requested the hippie guy fuck my ass.  He declined, but in the nicest way.  He opted, instead, to fuck his girlfriend, which I completely understood.  I’d already had a lot of fun.

The host kept bringing up the hippie chick fucking me with the strap-on.  His repeated insistence became downright creepy.

When I woke up everyone had gone.  I apologized to the host for falling asleep, as the party was not meant to be of the slumber variety.  The host was very nice, and even went so far as to make me quite a nice brunch that included freshly squeezed orange juice and some fluffy scrambled eggs.  The toast was his homemade bread.

Over brunch he told me he’d give me a ride home on the back of his motorcycle.  As I’d taken two buses there, I was grateful for the offer, which accepted.

After brunch we retired to the living room.  The host was obviously making his moves on me.  I, however, was still tired, and was a little jarred by the transition from a whole group to one-on-one for relations.  I really just wanted to go home and spend the day decompressing.

The host told me about a date he had recently had.  The second date with a certain woman had her to his house to eat a dinner he made.  He told me that they had not had sex, but that she should have known that going to his house to eat food he prepared meant that sex was expected.

At the time I sat there on the couch I was a tad out of it due to little sleep and thrill of having just had my first group sex situation.  It wasn’t until later that I realized he was telling me that since I was at his house, and he had made me a meal, that I “owed” him sex.

It should have dawned on me much earlier, because as soon as I made it clear I didn’t want to have sex with him that day he told me he no longer had time to give me a ride home.  I walked to the bus stop.  He rode his motorcycle past me as I waited for a bus that would take me toward home.

I swear.  True story.

Feb. 28, 2010 – 11:17pm
This is moving way too slow. Time is a tickin’. Do you have a facebook or myspace, or can I just get your number?
99% Enemy 0% Friend 0% Match Message from __________

Mar. 1, 2010 – 12:41pm
What, you know when you’re going to die, and it’s soon?  

I’m not sure how Facebook or MySpace would be quicker.  How about my email? [email protected]

 Or YIM: [email protected], or Google: ShazamSF.

Mar. 1, 2010 – 2:01pm
When can I hit that?

Mar. 1, 2010 – 3:01pm

Mar. 1, 2010 – 3:07pm
Yes or no?

Mar. 1, 2010 – 5:55pm
I don’t guarantee sex unless you guarantee cash.

Mar. 1, 2010 – 6:39pm
I don’t pay for that stuff. I get layed.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 3:50am
Well, certainly not for your spelling.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 3:50pm
I spell shit how I want to. I get layed cause I can handle a woman’s touch.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 4:36pm
Still charming.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 5:05pm
Give me you phone number, so we could do this.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 6:35pm
Could do what?

Mar. 2, 2010 – 7:27pm
Fuck each other.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 8:19pm
We could?

Mar. 2, 2010 – 9:02pm
Give me your phone number and I’ll have you on my cock.

Mar. 2, 2010 – 10:59pm
Ooooh, really? I could get that lucky?

Mar. 3, 2010 – 2:21am
Are we gonna do this?

Mar. 3, 2010 – 9:47am
Oh, we’re gonna do it.

Mar. 3, 2010 – 3:03pm
Then, give me your number.

Mar. 3, 2010 – 7:42pm
I’m a 10, baby.

Mar. 3, 2010 – 10:49pm

Mar. 3, 2010 – 11:15pm

Mar. 4, 2010 – 2:09am
Phone number?

Mar. 4, 2010 – 2:27pm
Yeah, give me yours.

[Whereupon he gave me his full name and phone number.  I did not call.  At the end of March he again "winked" at me, the OkCupid term for just saying hi without having to actually say hi.  According to his profile, the two most important things in his life are horses and the Holy Roman Church, so it's unclear why he'd think we'd have anything in common, except that you can see from the above exchange that he doesn't do much more thinking than the horses he trains.  This last time he winked at me I made clear that the only kind of sex I want to have is penis-in-vagina sex.  No, I don't believe that is the only thing that qualifies as sex, and I can think of a very lovely time I had recently wherein the guy's penis did not enter my vagina at all, but I have absolutely no intention of ever hooking up with this guy, who seems to think that all other forms of heterosexual sex is ok so long as the Pope hasn't explicitly forbade it.  I think that's utter bullshit and have no interest in fucking – or having sexual relations of any sort – with a guy who adheres to the letter but not the spirit of his own belief system.]

I swear.  True (lame) story.

around 2 pm

Beth’s coming over for lunch.  She’s going to bring Sidney with her.  He’s very cute – even if he does smell like a dog.  It is very windy today.  Those damn Santa Anas.  But I love LA.

4:48 pm

What if he’s coming over to tell me off?  But then why would he come over?  And why would he have to get stoned first?  But maybe he only wants some of the pot I got last night.  But he has his own and can get his own.  Why am I so damn paranoid?  I want a Supersoaker 100 – an air-pressure powered machine gun-looking water gun.  That would be a lot of fun – I just have to have someone to play with.  I still have to shower.  They changed the actor who plays “Face” on the “A-Team” – I’m so depressed.  Mr. T is very goofy looking – he wears overalls rolled up almost to his knees and lots of fake gold chains.  Not to mention the goofy mohawk with a beard.

[Another post from guest writer Dick Cramden.  He's prolific and shit.]

“Just stand there and let me look at you,” I said.  And you complied, perhaps a little embarrassed at how I loved drinking in the site of you.  “Don’t move.”

You stood perfectly still in the middle of my hotel room, at the foot of the king-sized bed.  Only your eyes moved as I walked around you, eyeing the shape of your body underneath your tight jeans and knit sweater.

I walked up behind you.  Took a deep breath of you into my lungs.  I ran my fingers up your scalp from the back of your head, slowly and firmly, toward the front.  You began to reach up with your hand.  “Don’t move,” I softly insisted.  And your hand returned to its resting place at your side.

I leaned in a little closer, still not letting my body touch yours, although you knew it was hungry to do so.  Softly I kissed the side of your neck.  Your head tilted slightly to the side, giving me the opportunity to kiss more of your neck.  I lightly traced a line to your ear with the tip of my tongue.  You smelled and tasted so wonderful.  Being in your presence aroused me.  Touching you thrilled me.

I reached around you, not quite hugging you, although I could sense you wanted me to hold you tight.  But I did not.  Instead I started to unbutton your jeans.  Instinctively your hands moved up, perhaps to assist me in my endeavor.  Again I told you, “Don’t move.”  Your hands relaxed again.

I undid your pants and slid them down over your hips.  I pushed them down until they were bundled about your ankles.  Then I ran my finger tips slowly and firmly up the sides of your legs, over your panty-clad waist, and under your sweater.  I saw from the motion of your breasts that your breathing was getting heavier.  Mine was too.

“I’ve waited a long time to have you here with me,” I said.  Then I added, “Raise your arms.”  Your arms went up.  And I slid your sweater up over your head, then tossed it neatly onto the chair near the bureau.

I walked around you again, drank in your sight even more deeply than before.  “Don’t move.”

I went to the bathroom for a moment, and returned with three candles.  I placed one on each night stand and one on top of the bureau, lighting each one as I set them down.  Then I switched off the lights.  Your body glowed in the candlelight.  A soft warm glow.

“Step out of your pants.”  It was a command, but sounded like a request.  You responded by sliding your feet out of your shoes, then kicking off each leg of your jeans.

Standing behind you again, I unclasp your bra.  Then with my hands, I slowly pushed the straps off your shoulders, one at a time.  I reached around in front of you and helped your bra slide off your arms.

I moved to stand in front of you and stared into your eyes.  I wanted nothing more than to envelop you with my arms and hold you tight.  But I didn’t.  Instead, I leaned forward, letting only my lips touch you, kissing you full on the mouth.  Our tongues met in a slow lingering kiss that seemed to last for ages.  You again raised your arms, and I broke the kiss.  Looking you in your eyes I again said, “Don’t move.”

I kissed you on your throat.  Slowly I started to kiss and nibble and lick my way downward.  Down your throat to your chest.  Down your chest to between your breasts.  Down from your breasts to your tummy.  I paused.  I looked up.  You were looking down at me.  Without taking my eyes from your eyes, I slie two fingers under the waistband of your panties, one on each side, and slowly began to pull them down.  I let them slide down slowly, so the fabric tickled your legs gently until they come to a rest over your feet.

[To be continued ….]

[Continued from "We Know Each Other?"]

I ordered another drink.  Still, no Sylvester.  After a while I came to the obvious conclusion that I had been stood up.  As I was working what I had determined was my final drink, a guy who had just ordered a round of drinks for he and his friends smiled at me.  I smiled back.

But the way he smiled at me ….  It was a knowing smile.  He delivered the drinks to his table and then came and sat next to me.  I said hi; he said hi.  That smile was still there, and the way he said hi made clear that I should remember him in some way.  He was kind of cute.

This was not the first time I was looked at in such a way.  When I was at 2009′s Folsom Street Fair, for which I volunteered and was placed in a trash/recycling/composting kiosk (of sorts), a guy walked by me and gave me a similar look to the one the guy in the bar was giving me.  According to his friend, I’d fucked the shy Folsom Street Fair guy.  Oh.

So I asked the guy in the bar, who was giving me that look, if we knew each other.  He looked at me with a smirk and said yes.  He told me his name, such a common name that I wouldn’t be surprised if dozens (hundreds?) of the guys I’ve fucked have that name.  No, not Michael, because I’ve fucked all the Michaels.  Or is it all of the Roberts I’ve fucked?  Either way, this guy telling me his name did nothing to refresh my recollection of his identity.  I told him as much.

I realized he didn’t want to have to tell me outright; he looked a tad sheepish.  So I asked, “Did we fuck?”  Even after he said yes I still didn’t remember him.  I assured him that it wasn’t him, that it was me, that I have a shit memory.  He gave me enough details – that we had fucked in my building’s stairwell, a common place for my clandestine trysts, and that I had a white box full of condoms.

The white box contains regular sized condoms, which are fine, though large condoms are nice because they fit on large cocks.  So with this guy I had brought out the white box, and we had apparently fucked in the stairwell of my building.  Still didn’t remember.  I fully admitted that I didn’t recall a fucking thing, but tried to assure him that it wasn’t due to his lack of skills (as far as I could recall), but from my lack of memory.

We talked for a bit longer.  I wanted to know if I was any good.  He assured me I was.  Good for me.  I wanted to know if I sucked his cock well.  No, I hadn’t sucked his cock.  WHAT THE FUCK?!  I suck all the cocks.  But there’s a possibility I’d sucked his just a little or not at all.  But how would I have known to retrieve the white box (versus the black one that contains large condoms) unless I’d determined within a general range his cock size?

He told me we fucked and it was good.  Then he asked me if I was at the bar “all the time.”

“Well,” I said, “this is my bar.”  He knew that I lived pretty close to the place if he’d been in my building.  Then he accused me of being at the bar “all the time.”

“Well,” I said, “this is my bar.”  He said that he’d only been in the bar twice and I’d been in it both times so I must’ve been in it a lot more than that.  This is one of those mistakes us humans make – to determine others’ behavior based on our own.  Just because he had been in the bar twice and he had seen me in it twice really could have been a coincidence, not an indicator that I was in the bar often.  It was only a determination that he and I were in the bar at the same time on two different occasions.

I assured him that I’d not been in the bar in a while, that the only reason I was in that night was to meet my date(s) who had stood me up.  I don’t think he believed me.  I think the combination of me being in the bar the only two times he (claimed he) had been there, and me not remembering him, made him think I was the resident bar slut.  Which maybe I was, but I certainly hope a good dive bar slut has done more than than I have in her bar of choice.

A good bar slut has made her way through patrons both regular and itinerant.  A good bar slut will have gotten down with at least one (but probably more) of the bartenders.  A good bar slut will have fucked somewhere in the bar and will have been invited to stay after hours, probably to fuck.

I’m a slutty bar patron, having fucked some people I met at that bar and a bartender at another bar, and having fucked after hours in yet another bar.  But I’m not any particular bar’s slut.  I’ve actually made it a personal policy not to hit too hard on the regulars or staff at this particular bar because it is my favorite.  I don’t want to not be able to go back there.

We talked about him and his girlfriend – he seemed downright miserable to be in a relationship with the woman.  I asked why he continued.  He had no answer, at least not for me, the random chick he met at a bar and then fucked in her stairwell.  We chit-chatted a bit more.  Then he said he had to join his friends at their table.  I asked if they would wonder why he was talking to me and he assured me that they knew why because they were the same friends he was with the night we originally met.  Cool, a few more people think I’m the bar slut.

He went to his table.  I finished my drink.  I walked over to his table and said goodbye and then made my exit.

I sent my would-b date, Sylvester, a kind of nasty email.  He claimed he had overslept a nap.  We’ll get together again eventually.

A couple of days later at lunch in SoMA I saw a guy whose cock I’ve sucked.  He didn’t recognize me.

I swear.  True story.

I was at a bar.  I was waiting to meet a guy and his guy.  The original guy – we’ll call him Sylvester – I had met one night when we were both horny.  He called when he was at my garage door.  I let him in my garage and walked him over to the “cage,” the chain link-fenced area where the building’s electrical meters are housed.  Once in the cage we kissed, though kissing was just a pretense because he was really there to stick his dick in my mouth, come, and leave.

That was our first meeting in person.  I had been virtually introduced to Sylvester through an OkCupid guy.  The OkCupid guy had gathered I’m a bit submissive and had wanted to meet me, but his own schedule got in the way.  He offered to “introduce” me to a guy he knew who was also dominant and for whom he could vouch.  Sylvester and I emailed each other and chatted online.  On the night we met we had been chatting about some dirty things, and I got horny.  I wanted to suck a new cock and he said he could drive over in short order.

After I sucked his cock and swallowed his come, he seemed to like me.  We scheduled another meeting, one where we’d be able to take advantage of my apartment when my roommate wasn’t home.  The day before said meeting he emailed me telling me that he’d be over “after 9,” that I should be showered and my ass cleaned, and that I should be wearing “sexy lingerie.”

There were a few problems with this.  While he was trying to be manly and dominant, I was put off by the tone, which seemed to indicate I was stupid; he had offered pointers on how to properly clean my ass in preparation for anal sex, something about which I am well aware.  Also, I didn’t know if he meant 9am or 9pm.  After nine in the morning was acceptable so long as it was also after ten in the morning so I had the place to myself; after 9pm was not good without more than one day’s notice.

And finally, I don’t really own any lingerie, sexy or otherwise.  I have bras, but they’re mostly utilitarian.  I have panties, all thong, but I rarely wear them.  And nothing matches.  Not sexy.  (I am, however amenable to someone buying me lingerie, and would happily allow someone to buy me lingerie; see my Amazon Wish List.)

But my biggest issue with Sylvester’s email was that it indicated he wanted to bring along another guy.  I’ve no problem with fucking two guys at once, or even three guys at once, but I need to meet a guy in person – or at lease interact with him online – before I’m in a situation where I think it would be awkward for me to say no.  I certainly did not feel as though I might be victimized, only that I’d possibly not feel any chemistry with the guy after the three of us were in my house, naked, ready to fuck.  It’s happened before and I’d like to prevent it from happening again.

Because of our various issues, Sylvester and I agreed that we’d meet at a local dive bar and that he’d bring along the guy so the three of us could be sure we wanted to fuck each other.  At the appointed time I was at said dive bar.  I ordered a drink.  I had conveniently placed myself at the bar in such a way that I could see the front door in the mirror behind the bar; I didn’t have to turn around to see when Sylvester and the guy arrived.

I drank my drink.  I tweeted about various things going on in the bar to pass the time.  People came and went from the bar.  This was early on a weekday at a dive bar so there weren’t many people in the place, but there was another person sitting alone at the bar.  I wanted to talk to him.  When I’ve had a drink or two I’m very good at striking up conversations with strangers, especially in bars.

[To be continued ….]

I swear.  True story.