Archive for July, 2010

[Continued from "Family:  July 30, 2010."]

We were woken up by the sun beating down on the tent and my sister’s voice.  My sister talks all the time.  She’ll talk to strangers in line at the grocery store.  She’ll talk to anyone.  She got that from our mother who, before she got sick, was very social.  It works in my sister’s favor since she works in sales, but she wasn’t selling anything on a family camping trip and I was in no mood to be woken up by her.

My parents had lent the Viking and I a camp stove, and the Viking brought his French press and pre-measured ground coffee, so we didn’t have to join the rest of the family right away.  Mornings are not my thing, and since I don’t drink coffee, I need quiet time to adjust from sleeping to interacting with humans.  The Viking seems to understand this and doesn’t demand too much of me in the mornings.

After breakfast, the Viking and I went for a walk with Isis.  The Oak Bottom area of Whiskeytown Lake is pretty small, and it was already hot, so our walk wasn’t very long.  I was worried that Isis’ pads were burning on the blacktop and I wasn’t sure if my SPF 55 sunscreen was enough to protect me.  That, and after seeing the Whiskeytown beach where I had visited multiple times when I was a kid, I got a little sad.  Mostly, I was over it.

Thereafter, time moved extremely slowly.  The Viking was nice enough to keep my Nalgene bottle full of things that made it easier to deal with my family.

Eventually, my step-brother showed up with his fiancé and their dog.  Their dog was much younger than Isis, and liked to swim, so the two dogs pretty much ignored each other after the initial butt sniffing, but she was very cute with soft, floppy ears.  Coincidentally, my step-brother’s dog and my step-cousin’s daughter had the same name.

The people with children, my step-sister and my step-cousin, went to the swimming beach with their kids.  The rest of us opted to stay at the camp area where it was shady and we had access to water if we wanted it.  The Viking had brought his iPad so he spent some time reading.  I decided to go out onto the lake on a doughnut-shaped flotation device.

The Viking was bored.  I was bored.  It seemed like the people with the kids were out at the swimming beach for a long-ass time.  It seemed like everything was taking a long time.

My sister’s girlfriend napped.  The Viking and I ate some beef barley soup.  Not canned soup.  No, no.  We heated up some beef barley soup that I had made with leftover bones from House of Prime Rib.  I make some damn good beef barley soup, a variation of this recipe.  I’ll post the recipe, probably in the fall, when beef barley soup is more appropriate.  It will be especially appropriate when I’m somewhere where it snows.

We were still bored.  I went out on the lake again.  Isis laid in the dirt.  The Viking read.

Some of the family members came back to our camp sites.  We were still bored.  I opted to take a nap.  It was hot inside the tent so I left the front flap open to get some air flow.  This proved to be a mistake; I should have left just the “window” open.  The next morning both the Viking and I were woken up by flies … and my sister’s voice.

After napping I swam some more.  I was still bored.  Time really was moving e x t r e m e l y slowly.  The Viking surmised that time moves slower the farther away from civilization one travels.  I agreed.

When everyone was back at the camp, and after some rearranging of tents to accommodate my step-brother and his girlfriend, I asked if we were ready to have appetizers.

The Viking and I had agreed to contribute appetizers to Saturday night’s potluck dinner.  To that end, the Viking made his very tasty hummus and I made my eggplant bruschetta.  We also provided pita bread and baguette to accompany.  There were 16 people, including four children, on the camping trip, so the Viking and I brought a lot.  A lot.  Barely a quarter of what we brought was eaten.  Fine, more for us.

After dinner, my sister, step-sister, and step-brother went to my step-brother’s campsite, as that was the one farthest away from the rest of the family.  After some talk and a few drinks things got loud.  Once standing, I realized I was a tad disoriented.  My step-sister felt pity for me and made sure I made it to the Viking and Isis, who were sleeping in our tent.

Once in the tent … yeah, we fucked.  I was quiet enough, I think.  The campsite closest to us was unoccupied, and the closest tent held my sister and her girlfriend; we had little reason to be quite as quiet as we were the night before.  I was a tad noisier, for sure, especially when the Viking fisted me.  He does that so well ….

We slept.

To be continued.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Family:  July 29, 2010."]

We slept in the room that will eventually be the baby’s room.  My sister and her girlfriend are trying to get the girlfriend pregnant.  Thankfully, there weren’t yet any baby paraphernalia around.

My sister made us yummy French toast, and then the Viking and I were ready to go.  The four of us were going to the same place but the Viking and I had done our prep work before we left San Francisco.  We stopped for ice and wine.  Ice for the ice chest.  Wine for me, because it’s best not to be sober around my family.

We drove east.  The weather changed significantly.  In Humboldt County it was in the 60s and foggy.  In Shasta County it was in the 90s and dry.

When we arrived at the campground, our tent was already set up.  The Viking and I set up the rest of our site, which was in full sun at that time of the day.  We were right next to the lake, the water of which looked refreshing.  I wanted to put my suit on and go for a quick swim with my step-sister and her two daughters.  I put my bathing suit in our bag in San Francisco.  However, when I looked for it once I wanted to don it, it was nowhere to be found.  I dumped out our bag, and went through all of our clothes but no swimsuit.

But I wanted to swim!  I was forced to take swimming lessons as a child.  I’m glad now, because I don’t worry I’m going to drown, but when I was a kid I hated it.  I’m not a strong swimmer, but I’m fine if the water is over my head.  I can tread water for a while.  So I hopped in the water in my clothes.  It was hot enough that padding around in wet clothes was more of a benefit than a detriment.

Pretty quickly I realized I could leave Isis off her leash without fear that she’d run off; she followed me around everywhere.  When I jumped in the lake she came right to the edge and looked worried.  I pulled her in the water and then swam out a bit.  She tried to follow me, she did, but Isis is not a good swimmer.  What I could see of her face looked panicked; her head was barely above the water.  I swam to her so she would no longer feel the need to swim toward me.  Once she got back on shore, she avoided getting in the water again for the rest of the trip.

It was still hot, though, so to cool down Isis lay down in the dirt.  She was a very dirty dog while we were camping.

That evening more people arrived.  We had five camp sites to accommodate everyone, which included my dad and step-mother; my step-sister and her two daughters; my sister and her girlfriend; my step-mother’s brother, his wife, and their adult daughter; and my step-mother’s brother’s adult son, his wife, and their son and daughter.  My step-brother and his girlfriend would arrive with their dog the next day.

We just hung out and visited.  I told my father about the move to Chicago.  My step-mother, who lived in the Midwest over 30 years ago, was amazingly not as negative as I expected her to be about the weather.  She suggested I get proper gear, which would make a huge difference in the winter.

Eventually the conversation became repetitive and boring.  And repetitive and boring.  My family doesn’t talk about anything of import so there are few arguments.  Or even discussions.  Boring.

The Viking and I went to bed.  The tent was big enough for us to stand in.  It was also big enough for our two sleeping bags, our clothes and such strewn about haphazardly, Isis’ bed, and empty space.  If the Viking and I had gotten into a fight we could have easily avoided each other in opposite corners of the tent.

We did not get in a fight though.  Instead, we fucked.  I had warned him that we’d not be able to fuck on the trip because we’d always be in close proximity to my family, and because I’ve gotten quite used to not having to be quiet.  I’m an adult who likes to fuck loud and so I do.

I had to be quiet that night though.  We could hear other family members talking about the same boring and repetitive shit they’d been talking about all evening, so it was easy to tell they couldn’t hear us.  It was the quietest I’ve ever been fucking the Viking.  We were so quiet we didn’t even disturb Isis, who was sleeping on her bed next to us.

On the way to the bathroom, I realized that my sister, step-sister, and sister’s girlfriend were up and having an actually interesting conversation so I hung out with them for a while.  The Viking and Isis stayed in the tent.  Us girls were talking about things we had in common; the Viking would have been bored.  Isis was pooped out from the heat and outdoor explorations.

Having spent many childhood summers in Shasta County, I know it doesn’t cool down much at night.  We slept on the sleeping bags, not in them.  That night it cooled down nicely so we slept well.  Which was good, since my family members tend to rise early and rudely.

To be continued.

I swear.  True story.

My mother has Alzheimer’s Disease.  She was diagnosed with dementia when she was 58.  She is now 63.  She looks 75.  She is a sad woman who cries whenever anything makes her uncomfortable.  She has reverted to almost child status.

Which is very sad because she had a shitty childhood.  Her father was an asshole.  That is putting it mildly.  My mother was the oldest of 12 children, and in one way or another my grandfather sexually abused each one of his 12 children.  For years my mother thought he had only messed with the girls, which meant there were nine boys who had a chance to be normal.  However, after their father died, the adult kids swapped some stories.

My grandfather sexually abused each one of his children.  And because they had been raised in an environment of disgusting, dirty, bad, shameful incest, some of those children abused some of their siblings.  It is horrible and shameful and the thought of what it must have been like to grow up as one of many military brats moving around often and finally settling in rural northern California all while their father had “special time” with each of them makes me alternately nauseous and weepy.

So it’s extra sad that my mother thinks both my sister and I are her sister because that means she sometimes thinks she’s still a kid, when things were shitty.  Really shitty.  Horrible.

My mother was disowned and shunned by her family when she came out as a lesbian.  That was when my mother and father were divorcing when I was four and my sister was eight.  My father didn’t take the news too well.  He drank a lot.  I get my alcoholism from my father.  He got it from his Native American grandmother. He stopped drinking for the most part when he became a born again Christian.

My dad and step-mother planned a family get-together at Whiskeytown Lake.  The plans began back in December 2009 when my step-mother reserved the multiple camp sites.  My step-sister had requested that the family camp at Wiskeytown, where we had gone camping numerous times when we were kids, living in Redding.  I lived in Redding, California, roughly from the time I was eleven until I was fourteen.  We did a lot of camping during that time.

When we were kids, my step-sister and I went “cruising for boys” when we went camping.  She was infinitely more comfortable and flirtatious than I.  I always went along for the ride, talking to whomever she had lured into talking to us.

I realized that it would be a good idea if I visited my mother, and then my father and his family planned the camping family reunion.  I could visit both parts of my family on one trip; two birds, one stone, and all that.  I would drive up to Humboldt County, where my sister and my mother lived, and then over to Whiskeytown, in Shasta County, to camp, before driving down the 5 to get home to San Francisco.   I figured I could visit my mother and my father and his family, along the way announcing  to everyone that I was moving.  Moving far away.  Moving to Chicago.

It was also on that trip when I’d introduce everyone to the Viking.  The Viking was nice enough to go with me on the trip despite all the stories I’d told him about my family.

On Thursday morning I picked up the rental car.  We loaded the trunk with our gear.  Our gear consisted of a small ice chest we bought for the trip filled with food we had prepared for the family pot luck dinner on Saturday night, clothes, and some sheets and blankets.  The Viking and I do not camp.  We have no camping equipment, and we like it that way.  We justified the ice chest purchase because it’s small enough to use for picnicking, which we do do.  My parents, who camp all the time, had everything else we’d need, including a huge tent, sleeping bags, a camp stove, and folding chairs.

We put Isis, along with her two beds, in the back seat of the car and we were off.  After a stop for ice and coffee we were off.  The Viking had never been across the Golden Gate Bridge so after a very foggy drive where most of the bridge couldn’t be seen at all he had to trust me when I told him that the Golden Gate Bridge was, in fact, behind us.

Up the 101 we went.  It got a lot warmer, and then cooled down again by the time we reached Humboldt County.  We found my sister’s house, no thanks to Google Maps which directed us off the 101 via a road that doesn’t exist.  My sister and her girlfriend showed us their cute little house complete with two dogs and garden.

We had a quick snack of local oysters.  The Viking doesn’t like oysters, but he was nice enough to do all of the shucking for us.  Then we went to visit my mother.  We picked her and her dog up and went to a park.

My mom can barely walk.  She’s often confused.  When I told her about the move to Chicago she burst into tears.  She was very happy to see Isis.  Isis used to be my mother’s dog; I got her when my mother’s partner abandoned her and kicked her out of the house the two of them owned together.

It may not seem like much.  It probably seems like nothing, me taking care of a dog that used to be my mother’s rather than taking care of my mother.  But it’s what I can do.

After a tearful goodbye with my mother, we went back to my sister’s place where there was a pot luck dinner already in progress.  We drank wine, ate, and socialized.  My sister has lived in Eureka for over ten years and has a group of loyal friends.

Eureka is too small a town for me, and the weather is a tad depressing, but my sister loves it.  She went to college in Humboldt County, too.  Coincidentally, the same college our parents attended when they met.  She lives in the same town both she and I were born.  She’s gone back to her beginnings, while I’m making a break for it.

To be continued.

I swear.  True story.

Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone trans, do not put suckers in pussies.  You see, the vagina has a delicate balance of bacteria and yeast.  Kill all the bacteria, which can happen with some oral antibiotics, and the yeast can take over, causing a yeast infection.

Some of you may think that a yeast infection is a stinky prospect.  You would be wrong.  If a pussy smells unclean when it is clean, that is probably bacterial vaginosis, which is caused by too much bacteria, not too much yeast.  The owner of said stinky puss needs to go to a doctor.

A yeast infection does not require a doctor’s visit any longer.  When I was a kid, it did.  The yeast fighting medication was doled out by prescription only; now it’s on drugstore shelves.  I lived with my mother from age four to age 11.  We never had much money, and my mother rarely had health insurance.  When she got a yeast infection she did not go to the doctor to have expensive medicine prescribed; she went to the grocery store for plain yogurt.

I would suggest to this woman that she buy herself some yogurt because introducing sugar to the vagina can do what taking bacteria away can do:  Mess up the delicate balance of bacteria and yeast in the vagina.  You see, dear readers, yeast really likes sugar.  It eats it up, gets all strong, and reproduces.  As long as there’s enough food, yeast will keep reproducing.

Those little yeast fuckers aren’t stinky, but they are itchy and very, very messy.  The discharge associated with yeast infections is, uh, unsightly.  Ok, it’s just plain gross.  It’s lumpy.  It’s sticky.  And, with an untreated yeast infection, can be voluminous.  There is nothing sexy about it.

There is nothing sexy about scratching at one’s crotch all the time either.  If you can find a partner who will look past the scratching and the discharge, you should still be careful.  Be careful alone as well.  Toys and boys can both get yeast infections.  Just when yours is all cleared up, an infected toy or penis can give that nasty infection right back to you.  No thank you.

Several years back I kept getting yeast infections.  I treated my infections with over-the-counter medication, which is not cheap, usually around $15 US.  Just when I thought the treatment had worked, I’d get that familiar and dreaded tingling that signaled the beginning of another infection.  Dammit!

I was married and monogamous at the time so it was pretty easy to make sure the one penis that was going in me wasn’t.  I was not getting reinfected by him, yet the infections just kept coming.  At the time I was monogamous, but had cheated on my husband when I was in Thailand (both the first and second times).

I had been tested for all the STIs, including HIV, when I returned from Thailand.  I was treated for an STI that was cleared up with a single dose of antibiotics, but had not tested positive for anything else.  I was relieved, and felt very lucky considering I’d had unprotected sex with multiple partners in a place with a high rate of HIV.  However, when I kept getting yeast infections, I began to worry.

HIV, as you all know, fucks with the immune system.  Being able to keep yeast infections at bay is one of the things a non-immunocompromised body does all the time.  Recurring yeast infections can be a sign that the immune system is compromised.  I went to the doctor, because at the time I did have health insurance.

I had another HIV test, which was negative.  Yet I continued to have yeast infections.  I was not having any fun at all between the no sex, the itching, and the discharge, and I still didn’t know what was causing my flora and fauna to go out of whack.  I had not taken any antibiotics.  My diet had not changed significantly.  I wasn’t using new soap ….

Wait a minute, I was using new soap.  I had been given a big bottle of Summer Hill scented Crabtree & Evelyn body wash by my parents (my father and step-mother).  My step-mother had obviously picked the scent based on her own taste in scents.  I didn’t want to be ungrateful, and it didn’t smell as bad as, say, patchouli or Chanel No. 5, so I used it.

I love a lot of the products Crabtree & Evelyn carry, my favorite being Goatmilk soap.  However, I will never use any Summer Hill product again.  The smell makes me squirm and itch with the memory.  I stopped using the body wash and the yeast infections stopped.  Well, at least from that cause.  They’re always lurking around the corner if I take the wrong antibiotics, or if I use a strongly scented soap, or, or, or.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Tax Day (Part 1)."]

I put her hand on the button of my jeans and kissed her so she could taste herself on my mouth. I love eating pussy. I wanted to eat more, but we had some fucking to do.

She stepped out of her clothes and kicked off her shoes. She lifted her left leg around me so she could better rub her clit up against my big cock head.

She pushed me back onto her office couch and straddled me. I slid right in and she exhaled deeply. She ground her pussy straight down onto my cock. I looked up and could only see the whites of her eyes.

The warmth and moisture of her pussy was in such contrast to the roughness of my jeans that I almost came immediately. But I didn’t want to come yet; I wanted to fuck for a long time.  The feel of her pussy and her smell was making holding off difficult.

She could feel me throb.  She asked, “Is this ok?”

“Yeah,” I said. “No problems here. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t worry about me.”

“Wait a minute, I need to do something for you.” She slid off me and began using her mouth on me.  With my cock in her mouth she looked up into my eyes.  She didn’t suck, and she didn’t lick;   she made her mouth a perfect place of friction, warmth, and wetness.
She crushed my bulbous cock head in the back of her throat. I began to squirm and tried to get away, but she was cupping and squeezing my balls while mouth fucking me. She had me cornered on the couch.

I was so relaxed and enjoying myself so much that I came in her mouth. I saw flashes of white light as I spewed six or seven squirts of hot come down her throat.  Each spurt was more powerful than the last because she kept her mouth on my cock. The orgasm was powerful and lasted about 30 seconds, so I was amazed that I was still hard as a rock.

The fact that I could still smell her juices on my face was making me crazy. That, and that she said I smelled good.

She climbed back on top of me, getting my cock head deep up inside her and right against her g-spot.  She pushed her clit down hard on my pubic bone. She set the stage for an orgasm that had clitoral and g-spot stimulation. This woman had it all worked out. I kissed her mouth and brushed my fingers along her nipples.

As soon as I playfully licked one of her nipples while rubbing the other with one of my come-y fingers, she said, “Oh baby, I’m coming. No warning. I’m going to come now. You’re going to make me come … oh baby.” Then she convulsed and collapsed in my arms. I guessed she normally could feel her orgasms coming on, but not this time; it hit her like a ton of bricks.

We were both soaking in come. It was a big orgasm by someone who hadn’t been fucked properly since well before Valentine’s Day. The room smelled completely of sex. We both giggled in amazement at the intense sex we’d just had.

With her head resting on my chest, she said,”It’s been a while. And this was so nice.”

“I know. I loved it too.”

We held each other on her office couch, and looked around at our clothes tossed about the room.

We heard a drawer close at one of her assistant’s desks outside her door.

Our eyes popped out, eyelids drawn wide.  Grins appeared just before we covered our mouths.  From behind her hand she said, “Holy shit, do you think she was there the whole time?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “I thought they all went to the post office together.”

Mostly a true story. I swear.

7:04 P.M.

I eat too much too late at night.  Cleo’s waste is becoming more solid – good, she goes where I have to clean it up.  I’ll have to put newspapers down tomorrow.  I want some food.

My little baby is so sweet.  I have to film stuff to send to [Step-Sister]‘s graduation celebration.  Or maybe I should go.  Shit I don’t know.  It’s all so dull.  I want a car.  I want to go for a drive.  I want more money.  I want the cat shit smell to go away and now.  Why does she have to be such a monster?

I have more pretty flower photos from Derrick D, the very close friend I’m going to miss terribly when I move.  I’ve known DD for almost three years after having met through Craig’s List Casual Encounters.  I responded to his “Fag Looking for a Hag” ad.  I hope when I move I’ll be able to find a fabulous gay friend, one who will have no interesting fucking me.

This one, left, is pretty and pink and seems to have something dirty and phallic coming out of it.  Another of nature’s butt holes.

The pink flowers in particular remind me of flushed body parts.  Of blood-engorged dicks and clits and lips, both facial and nether.  This flower to the right reminds me of lips of all sorts.

On the other hand, this bud that’s just barely opening looks like a cock head.  That looks like a pee hole with a nice, pointy head.  That looks like something I could literally get my mouth around.

The flower in this last pic seems to be hiding something.  Something mysterious down in there.  Maybe it’s warm and wet and squishy.  Oh, sorry, it’s just a flower, it’s not an ass.

Derrick and his new iPhone are taking some lovely photos around San Francisco.

I swear.  True story.