Archive for January, 2011

I grew up with an obese mother.  An obese mother who was, by evidence I observed as a child, not ashamed of her body.  She was often naked – she slept naked and conducted many household activities naked.  She had many, many lovers who seemed to like her obese body.  Years after I moved out and was visiting her with a friend of mine, the friend and I made too much noise and woke my mother.  My mother – who slept naked, remember – and I proceeded to have a horrible fight – I called her a cunt – in front of my friend, all while she was naked.

I don’t know how much my mother weighed, but it was upwards of 200 lbs on her 5’3″ frame.  She was always fat.  She claimed she gained the weight when she got pregnant with my sister, who is four years older than me.  “Baby” weight does not stay on for more than 30 years, but she went with it.

From the time my mother and father broke up when I was four until my mother’s 50s she had a number of lovers, all but one of them women.  I know this because my mother was very open with me regarding her sex life.  Very open:  When I was eight she explained to me what a climax was.  I didn’t fully understand, but I do recall being horrified that she was explaining it to me as she lie in bed – naked.  (No, there was not any inappropriate touching.)  And she’s the one who called her lovers “lovers,” a word that still makes me cringe.

The one area where it was obvious my mother was not comfortable with her weight – or, more accurately, with the weight of others – was food service.  She found it repulsive to have her food prepared and/or served by a fat person.  The irony was that any food she ate at home was both prepared and served by a fat person.

I remember being embarrassed about my mother when I was young.  I didn’t want her to pick me up at school even when she could, which was rare because she worked.  I didn’t want her to volunteer for class trips either.  And it was because she was fat.

When I was 11 I moved in with my father and step-mother, both of whom were thin, fit people.  I didn’t want my step-mother to pick me up from school or volunteer for class trips – not that she would have – not because she was fat but because she looked mean.  Truthfully, my step-mother reminded me of Mrs. Olsen on “Little House on the Prairie” complete with a sour puss and hair pulled back into a severe bun.

Living with my father and step-mother, I heard – a lot – about how I took after my mother physically and my sister took after our father because I was short and chubby and my sister was tall and thin.  Us kids were encouraged to exercise – both my sister and step-sister had been involved in dance – and eat well – every single dinner included protein, starch, and vegetables in proportions that today would seem a little heavy on the meat and the starch, but that at the time my step-mother was learning about nutrition were what was considered healthy.  When I was a child a soda was considered a special treat, and we were allowed to watch only an hour of television per day except on very special occasions.  This is all to say that I know exercise is good, proper nutrition is good, and sloth is bad.

To be continued.

I swear.  True story.

[See "Found in 'Sex Stories' File (1)" for an explanation of what these stories are.]

“You bitch, you whore!  You’ll let anyone fuck that big juicy cunt of yours, won’t you?  Your legs are spread for everyone, aren’t they?  Am I going to have to teach you who you can fuck and you can’t?  You fuck who I say you can fuck, when I say you can fuck.  Do you understand or have your eardrums been fucked useless like the rest of you?  I don’t like my cunts – because that’s all you are – out getting wet for others.  You are mine.  You are to do what I say only what I say.  Do you understand me?  I didn’t get where I am today by disobeying my mistress.  I did everything she told me to.  She told me to lick another man’s asshole, and I did it.  When I’d be so turned on and wanting to come so bad but mostly just to put my cock deep into her pussy, she waited until l I thought I must be in hell with the devil, and then allowed me to jack off.  She was my mistress.  I love her, and I can love only her.  I wold still be her slave today though I am mastering you.  For us there could be no other way.  Just like for you and I there could be no other way.  You, my little Jezebel, need to be punished.  Come here.  Yes!  You do know what’s going on don’t you, you do know what’s happening to you.  What I’m going to do to that lusty little body of yours.  No one will want to look at you for a while after I get done today.  Put your hand up here.  there, you can’t move it can you?  Good.  Now the other one.  And your feet here and here.  Are you comfy?  Today I’m going to use a variety of collection of toys.  Some of them you helped pick out for their skill at inflicting pain.  You love pain, don’t you?  That’s why you came to me.  You couldn’t inflict enough upon yourself by

[I guess that's where I ended.  This really is shitty.  I'm kind of embarrassed.]

Here is another photo from December 25, 2009.  This is Charles Gatewood and me taken by Charles, who seems to have a camera in his hand most of the time.

No need to tell me I’m fat – I know that.  No need to tell me my bra is ill-fitting because I know that as well.  I should have taken it back but I had already returned one and this one was the replacement.  I hate bra shopping and just wanted something that worked.  It works well enough, but the cup size is too large; it will be a great bra if I ever want to sneak something into a concert, or onto a plane (provided I don’t get the enhanced pat down).

I swear.  True story.

7:30 P.M.

Got woken up by the telephone at 11:30 A.M.  It was Abel.  He came over.  Boy, is he persistent about sex.  No, I didn’t.  No, I’m not sure why not.  But he did go down on me.  I didn’t come but I probably was expecting too much from what I heard from him and Laura.  He kept forcing it and at one point I got a wee-bit nervous ’cause he is stronger than I am and he really wanted to get it it.  Then we went to Crown City Brewery and I finished my book while Abel told me about some lame sports records as if I cared.  He bores me.  The only reason I keep with it is because Laura says she’ll kill me and Abel says he likes me.  Oh, and also it’s kind of exciting to be sneaky.

At work Macella (Who gives a fuck how to spell it?) asked me if Judy had talked to me since the last time I worked.  Was she supposed to call me at home?  Anyway, she said that I shouldn’t have left Friday night until I made sure the two kids were with their parents.  I put them on the platform under the stairs and told the people at the front desk to page the parents.  Then I left.  I was told today that I should’ve paged at about a quarter to nine.  However, if I’m alone with the kids, how am I supposed to go to the front desk?  She said to yell at someone.  Yeah, right.  I told her I had a bus to catch and I got off at nine, not one minute after.  She left.  She came back to tell me I can’t play cards because then I couldn’t pay attention to the kids.  At the time there was a one-and-a-half year old and an eight year old and Nicole was in there with me so I wasn’t real worried about anyone getting hurt.  So I put my cards down and stared at the child.  She left.  She came back.  She wanted to talk to me in the back office.  We got back there, she shut the door, and the key word through my brain was “attitude.”  She said it and with “bad” in front of it.  She told me to clock out then and she’s call me tomorrow to tell me what’s going on.  Then she went into it about how all childcare workers know they’re not supposed to play games.  Before she got too far, I said, “Tell you what, I’ll just quit” and I walked out.  So now I only have on job.  I did get a great rush though – I’ve always wanted to quit like that.

I think I’m going to go to the International Tourneé of Animation at the Rialto tonight.  Hell, I have nothing better to do.

I have to go pick up my pants at the dry cleaners.  I was suppposed to get them on Monday but I forgot today.  Maybe tomorrow before work.  If I can remember.

[Continued from "They Know Each Other? (Part 2)."]

While I avoided seeing the Artist and Artisan in the same place, I did not avoid them individually.  Several months after our original bedroom fun, the Artist asked me to lunch at a place close to my apartment.  He lived in my neighborhood so it was convenient for both of us, but I also knew that he chose the place because it would be easy to walk back to my place after lunch and a couple drinks.

Over lunch the Artist and I again had a great conversation.  He told me his products were to be sold at a local branch of a major retailer.  He was, like many people tend to be when faced with “success,” modest about it; he didn’t think his products were all that special.  Well, it didn’t matter if they were or not, people were interested.  I congratulated him.

After lunch and a couple drinks, the Artist and I walked back to my apartment.  Again, we had a great time, and again his penis did not enter my vagina.  I don’t have to have a penis in me, and rarely come that way, but it still seemed a little odd that we didn’t fuck considering we did everything else.

The Artisan and I had been communicating off and on for several months mostly via Twitter direct message.  He wanted to get together again.  I was all for it and thought it would be nice and square:  Two times each with two brothers.  We exchanged some dirty messages – he’d been having fantasies involving male-to-female transsexuals – and set up a date.  He canceled in the eleventh hour.  I figured he had a lot on his plate, what with his being married and having a successful business oftentimes next to his brother.

I did see the Artisan again before I moved out of San Francisco.  I was on the return trip from walking Isis through Noe Valley when I saw him randomly on the street.  Though I had lived in the Mission for seven years and in San Francisco for ten, it was still a little disconcerting to run into someone I not only knew, but whose cock had been in me.  I said hello; he looked at me blankly.

Once home, I signed onto Twitter and saw the tweets of a different guy whose cock had been in my mouth.  I had randomly seen that guy on numerous occasions since said blow job, including at the SF Zine Fest; Split Pea Seduction, which is owned by a friend; and Dosa on Valencia.  Every time I saw him I didn’t want to go up to him and say, “Hi, you may not remember me, but your come’s been in my mouth” because that would be tacky and awkward.  But I kept seeing him and he kept not recognizing me, which I took as a kind of insult.  I unfollowed him and tweeted something along the lines of, “If you can’t remember your cock being in my mouth then I needn’t follow you.”

Understandably, the Artisan thought I was tweeting about him.  He DM’d me and assured me that he remembered me but that in our quick exchange simply had not realized who I was.  He wanted to get together again.

I was all for us hooking up again, but didn’t see as how we’d have time considering I would soon be moving to Chicago.  I told him that it was not he who was the guy whose cock I sucked who didn’t recognize me whom I was not following any longer, and that if I only had time we’d get together.

I didn’t hear from either the Artist nor the Artisan again.  I moved to Chicago.  I have fond memories and I plan on telling people about the brothers I all but fucked.

I’m considering sending links of this story to the brothers but I’m worried the married brother will have repercussions.  Just be aware that there are a couple of semi-celebrity brothers whom I have sucked.

I swear.  True story.


Abel called and wanted me to go over there for hanging out and smoking pot.  But then his practice got moved up so he had to cancel.  Another lonely day.  Maybe it’s for the better – we probably would’ve had sex and then who knows about the guilt factor.

Abel just called again.  I guess maybe he might come over after all.  Hmm.  “Things that make you go hmm.”

Last night at 1970 it was a wee bit more fun – I was on acid.  I always think it’s gonna be no big deal and then it gets me.  I’m so amazed at what my brain is capable of.

I got paranoid – but not in a bad way ’cause I know it’s the acid – got to thinking that there were terrorists there who were placing bombs around the

8:36 P.M.

Henry called, had to go, and said he’d call back in five minutes.  Has he called?  Nope, of course not, he never does anything he says he’s going to.  And Abel called to tell me that he’s tired and has no money.  He asked if he could sleep here but I don’t want a snoring, sweating boy next to me all night, so I get none tonight.  Masturbation – yippee.  Of course even if Henry was here, I’d be doing the same thing.

I want someone to fuck my brains out while I’m on acid.  I want really loud music playing with a strong beat.  Last night I was kissing Sean and the music just made me feel with it.  And I got so excited kissing him (more so than usual) that I just wanted to fuck and fuck and fuck.  Of course the night before added to that.

Saturday – Sean called and then came over.  I didn’t even give him a chance to settle in.  He threw his backpack on the floor and by the time he got his jacket off, we had been “making out” for some time.  He gets me very hot.  Well, he did me from behind.  Lordy.  I like it – a lot.  I knew I would but I liked it really a lot.  I like having my face stuffed into the bed and my arms tightened into right angles.  And he reached around with his hand to rub my clit.  I still haven’t come while he’s inside me but either he doesn’t last long enough or I take too long.  I figure eventually we’ll get it right if we keep trying.

I want to call Abel ’cause he’s my only chance at immediate action.  But I don’t have to have any action.  I just want it.  Shit, answering machine came on.  None, I get none.  That’s what I get for getting his with temporary morality.  Morals are for asexual anti-socials.  That’s it – I’m not going to be shy around any boys anymore (Saturday day I got embarrassed when Abel wanted to “get naked.”) ’cause it’s just not worth it.  I just need a little something to loosen me up.  A drink?!  No ’cause eventually I’ll be drinking so much I’ll have to go to the bathroom every two seconds.  I also think that I’m drinking too much any way.  Pot.  But sometimes I get mellow and tired.  Acid.  Half a hit and I’m great.  But my immunity or whatever builds up to that and I can’t get ahold of that too often.  I don’t really like coke and I wouldn’t know where to get it anyway.  Or maybe I should just let myself go.  Be uninhibited.  Like I am with Sean.  He makes me feel so beautiful and desirable and sexy.  If I just [sic] myself into the right state of mind.  Am I sex addicted?  Maybe.  Should I go to a psychologist?  Shit, who cares?  My phone is not ringing.

My tattoo still has not gone down.  I don’t want it to stay like this but I might not have a choice.  Oh shit.  Oh well.

11:13 P.M.

I want someone to sneak acid to me and then watch me and fuck me.  Am I obsessed?  Sex and drugs.  Not so bad.  Too many fantasies, not enough time.

Last night at Laura’s house, I stayed in Deanna’s room and listened to Pink Floyd “Animals” and shut my eyes.  I felt like I was on a journey because the first and last songs sound the same.  I love how the gituir (Fuck, I’m just to [sic] to remember how to spell that one.) sounded like it was singing and crying.

I only had one problem last night – the first “bad” thing that’s happened to me on acid.  I was dancing with Laura when two guys came around us and started dancing real close with us gals in the middle.  I was getting squished and couldn’t move.  They wouldn’t let me go so I panicked.  I went down and started crying on the floor until Laura picked me up and took me away from the people.  Then I went off by myself again.

[Continued from "They Know Each Other? (Part 1)."]

The Artist called me.  We arranged to meet at a local dive bar in the afternoon.  I walked over in the rain with my umbrella.  One of the things I liked about rain in San Francisco, was that it was never truly cold when it rained, and that day felt nice.

There were only five people in the bar including the bartender so it was easy for us to have a bit of privacy.  Over a few drinks the Artist and I had a great conversation.  He talked about his work and how he and his brother got into similar lines of it.  He talked about their upbringing which was … unique; without giving too much away, I’ll just say their childhoods set them up to deal with variety of people.

Their upbringing was very interesting in a fucked up sort of way, and certainly more fucked up than mine with my government cheese and my lesbian mother.  There was a funny story about his father embracing a lifestyle that didn’t require clothes, which scandalized his brother, the Artisan, and the Artisan’s wife.

Then I remembered that when I had seen the Artisan and given him that blow job, it was sort of a last hurrah before he got married.  It seemed unlikely from the Artist’s description of his brother that his was an open marriage.

After a while the Artist and I walked in the rain to my place.  We were both a little soggy so of course we decided to take of our wet clothes. Once our clothes were off we went ahead and put our mouths, hands, and genitals to use.

We had good sex but we did not have vaginal intercourse.  That was fine with me, sex needs some variety, but I wondered why not.  The Artist’s brother and I didn’t fuck probably because there was some part of him that could justify the cheating if it was “just” a blow job, but the Artist was single as far as I knew.  It didn’t matter much since we’d definitely had some fun.

So I had been with brothers.  Sibling penises had been in my mouth.  He he.  I liked it.  It’s one of those things I can say, “I did brothers.”  I know such sneaky behavior just for the sake of being able to say I hooked up with brothers isn’t very Ethical Slutty of me, but oh well.

I told my neighbor that I’d hooked up with the Artist.  She gave me a pat on the back and asked if I was going to hook up with the Artisan again.  Because he was married I figured not.  That didn’t stop my neighbor from inviting me to all sorts of local events where she knew both the Artist and Artisan would be.  She thought it would be hilarious if she could witness the moment when the brothers realized they’d both received fabulous blow jobs from me.

I didn’t agree.  If I had seen both of them at the same time I’d probably blush and stammer and in other ways give away the secret.  I didn’t think it would be all that horrible for the brothers to know that they’d both been with me – hell, chances were I wasn’t the only woman who had been with both of them – but I did think that it might not be good for anyone to know the Artisan had been with someone not his wife.

I avoided going to events where both the Artist and Artisan were scheduled to be, which was unfortunate because those events were the kinds of things the Viking and I liked doing.

I was not done with the brothers ….

I swear.  True story.