4:02 pm

My mother gets angry quite easily.  I really don’t think I’m like that and if I am I hope to change soon.  I like being busy.  The busier I am it seems the easier it is for me to sleep and keep my energy up.

9:52 pm

Erica’s coming.  I called earlier tonight and she’s having beaucoup problems so I told her to come down here.

[Catch up:  Part 1.]

The next day, Saturday, we walked around Manhattan (Midtown maybe) where Mr. Schwartz patiently waited outside while I shopped.  Before I entered each store he handed me some cash–not much, usually $40 per store.

I went into my first Urban Outfitters, where I bought a cute dress I still own (only now I don’t look nearly as cute in it).  I went to the perfume counter of a high-end, only-in-New-York (at the time) department store (Saks Fifth Avenue maybe) and did some sniffing.  I settled on Byblos, a scent I still wear on occasion, and which I got for my mother-in-law one year for Christmas when the Ex and I were still together.

Mr. Schwartz showed me the usual sites–I think we even went into FAO Schwarz and other touristy crap in that area.  Eventually we made our way back to his place.  Once in his apartment he pulled out a wad of cash.  He asked me how much weight I had lost and paid me accordingly.  We also had at least one other agreement that garnered me some more cash.

I believe I went in to “my” bedroom to get ready for dinner when Mr. Schwartz followed me in and fondled my breast (the left one, I think).  I told him that I didn’t want him doing that and he implied that he could do whatever he wanted since he had paid for my trip and so on.

I left his apartment.  I walked around for a little while.  It was early evening and not too cold so I was fine.  When I calmed down a bit I called him from a pay phone (you might have heard of them, kids).  I asked if he had realized the errors of his ways, to which he responded that I needed to apologize to him.

I went back to his place, packed up my stuff, and left.  I was not about to let ol’ Saggy Schwartz do whatever he wanted to me without my explicit consent just for a place to stay for the night.

I walked around Manhattan with the little luggage I had for just the weekend trip.  I was trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do until my flight back to California the next afternoon.  I went to a B. Dalton Books and told the clerk that I worked in the Santa Anita Fashion Park store.  I also told him that I didn’t have a place to stay for the night.  He didn’t give a shit about either.

I could have gone back, but I didn’t want to humiliate myself by either apologizing or touching his pendulous friends again.  I also didn’t know if he would have required me to fuck him as a form of punishment/payment.  At the time I was still scared of penises–I’d probably only had two or three in me by that time, inclusive of my disastrous loss of virginity.  Thinking back, I don’t recall that his penis was ever hard the night before.  Maybe his age combined with his diabetes affected his erectile function.  This, of course, was the days of yore, when Viagra and it’s brethren pharmaceuticals were mere fantasies of the limp-dicked oldsters.

I walked around, but after all the stories of rape and murder I’d heard about New York I was scared to wander too far from where I’d already been.  Knowing what I know now, Times Square was still a sleazy, dirty place in the early 1990s.  If I had found it I may have been turned out by a nice pimp daddy.  (Instead I opted for the straight life of formal education.)

I hung out in Central Park for a bit.  This was before I’d ever watched Law & Order, but I knew stories of horrific events that took place in Central Park.  My step-sister had been obsessed with Robert Chambers (she thought he was hot).  I was not about to roam into the bowels of the park, so I stayed on the periphery and sat on a bench to observe rats boldly going through rubbish that was overflowing out of a trash can.  I had never seen rats that weren’t pets (the step-sister and I had had pet rats when we were in seventh grade) so I was entranced.

Also in Central Park I saw fireflies for the first time.  Having lived in California my entire life fireflies were something I’d only observed in movies, and I suspected their wonder was exaggerated.  It was not.  Fireflies are fucking cool.  Years later, a visit to Indiana showed me how artistic their illuminated bodies look when sacrificing themselves on a windshield.

It was cooling down significantly and had already gotten dark.  I needed a place to stay.  I had only the cash that Mr. Schwartz had given me.  At the time I had no credit cards at all, and my bank was only found on the West Coast so I had no way to get more.  This was before independently-owned ATMs could be found in abundance so I couldn’t access my bank account at all.

I hailed a cab.  I told the cabbie my sob story because I certainly couldn’t tell him where I wanted to go–I had no fucking clue.  He drove me around for a while.  He offered to take me to the Russian Tea Room.  I decided I should make my way to the airport and declined his generous invitation.

I don’t remember where that cabbie dropped me off, but it was somewhere in Manhattan.  I hadn’t gotten very far.  I took another cab to Queens with the intent to go to the airport.  Again, I told the cab driver my lament.

I was nineteen and dumb.  I had no clue about getting on a flight on stand-by.  But neither did the cabbie apparently, or he didn’t care to share the information with me.  I was prepared to wait at the airport all night until my flight was scheduled to leave.  The information the cab driver did share with me was that the airport would close at night.

Obviously, I was quite naive at the time.  I’m now sure that the cab driver got a kick-back from the motel at which I ultimately stayed for the night, but in all my retellings of this story over the years, NO ONE ever pointed out that major airports don’t fucking close, ever.

The cab driver took me to at least three motels that were relatively close to the airport.  I was looking for the cheapest one that didn’t require a credit card.  I ended up staying at a motel that charged by the hour.  Amazingly, I was able to sleep.

The next morning I took my final taxicab in New York City–from the shitty pay-per-hour motel in Queens to La Guardia Airport.  I recall hearing someone with a heavy New York accent in an elevator in the airport.  I almost laughed in the guy’s face because he really did sound like he was putting on the accent.  To my West Coast ears he sounded like he was playing the part of a typical New Yorker; I had always thought those characteristics were exaggerated.  Apparently they were not.

I immediately went to the bar closest to my gate.  In the hours I waited I had several margaritas.  I was prepared to show my older sister’s driver’s license, which I had become accustomed to using to buy alcohol since I was seventeen.  However, I was never carded.

I made it home without incident.  I told everyone my harrowing adventure.  I didn’t spare any details for anyone, including my mother.  If anyone expressed concern for my personal safety I’d point out that there I was, telling the tale, so obviously I was fine.  Ahh, the arrogance of youth, how I miss you.

I never spoke to Mr. Schwartz again.

Before this whole adventure Mr. Schwartz had already planned a trip to LA for later in the year.  He wanted to further “audition” me as well as a friend of mine, Rachael.  Rachael and I had gone to high school in northern California together, but at the time she lived in Albuquerque.  He had bought her a round-trip plane ticket, the schedule of which coincided with his LA trip.

I was so dense that it really didn’t occur to me that what he really wanted was a threesome with two nubile young ladies.  I was nineteen, but Rachel was even younger, probably barely eighteen at the time (she had definitely finished high school).

Rachel’s plane ticket was in my possession.  I thought I was so clever by changing the dates so Rachel could come visit me.  I mailed her the ticket.  Unfortunately, I was not clever enough to write Rachel’s zip code on the envelope correctly, so by the time the ticket arrived, the date of travel on the ticket had passed.

I swear.  True story.

Disclaimer:  Any facts recounted here are as the author recalled them at the time of writing; any opinions based on those facts expressed herein are the opinion of the author.

Facebook now has suggestions for whom to follow.  I’ve noticed the suggestions for me tend to be people in San Francisco who went to some of the same schools as I, or who are friends of friends. A lot of the people I actually know but have NO interest in “friending” on Facebook or anywhere else.

One such person is BB.  His Facebook photo is that of a hardcore dork.  He’s showing off his closely-cropped yet shitty haircut and he has his hand to his chin so his watch is in full view.  The pose is redolent of a high school senior portrait.  The look on his face simultaneously says, “This is me looking contemplative,” and “You think I’m sexy, don’t you?” and “Isn’t my watch cool?” and “Oh, the camera’s over there?”  Also, his hand appears to be almost as large as his pin-ish head.

[When I originally wrote that last paragraph I was planning to not post the photo of BB.  I do have a conscience.  For example, I did not post the photo of Donkey Dick‘s face because he had emailed it to me, not posted it on the internetweb.  Well, BB posted his photo online, so I’m merely reposting a photo that is already there for anyone with internet access to see anyway.  Yes, I’m a bitch, but really, posting the photo here only serves to embarrass me, because …]

Sadly, I fucked this guy.  A lot.

It wasn’t my fault though.  I blame a former friend, CK, and my weakened emotional state.

The Ex had just left me; my dog, Otter, was old (15 years) and sick; my mother had been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease and subsequently kicked out of her home; my step-brother had been in and out of jail and diagnosed with bipolar disorder; my brother-in-law had died a tragic death in his early 20s, etc.  I was not handling very well all the bullshit that the universe was piling on me. (And there was a lot more to come, though of course I didn’t know it at the time.)

CK was a good friend of mine with whom I had attended law school.  CK’s friends, a heterosexual couple, were in town from Portland, Oregon, to attend the Treasure Island Music Festival (2007) so the four of us hung out on Friday night before the show.  We went to some local dive bars where everyone proceeded to get drunk and stupid.

We went back to my place to drink some more.  I also made everyone BLTs, one of my specialties when the tomatoes are in season (it was September).  We were all drunk and goofing around.

Living alone means I leave my email and other computer applications open at all times.  CK began reading some emails, with my full approval, and asked me who this BB guy was.

I explained how we had initially, and subsequently, met.  Several months–and possibly as long as a year–before, when the Ex and I still thought we were in a workable marriage, we went out with a large group of friends for someone’s birthday.  The Ex and I socialized with an extended circle of people, mostly couples.  That night we went out to Thai food and then walked to the W Hotel to have a couple of drinks in the bar.

Our group colonized the upholstered furniture just inside the revolving doors that face the Moscone Center.  The Ex was at the bar getting some drinks when a guy who was not in our group began chatting me up.  He offered to buy me a drink.  I told him that my husband was getting me a drink at that moment, but that he could buy me my next one.  The Ex certainly did not begrudge me a free drink so long as I didn’t unnecessarily lead anyone on.

The guy and I talked.  Apparently his friends had dared him to talk to me because he had been admiring me from afar.  That was certainly flattering, and because I found him unattractive I felt completely safe flirting with him just a bit, and was not concerned that I did so in front of my husband and our friends.

Eventually our group got its fill of $10 drinks and we moved on.  I gave the guy my business card.  BB began emailing me.  He wrote very long emails.

Eventually I told him, via email, that he was devoting far too much energy into me considering I was married and certainly not looking to cheat on my husband (with a guy I found dorky and unappealing).  That was the end of that.

Fast forward several months.  I was freshly single and horny so I perused Craig’s List.  I responded to an ad that had reasonably intelligent copy and included a photo of a woman tied up on her knees.  I received a response from a familiar email address.  It was the same guy I’d met at the W way back when.

We exchanged several emails.  I revealed pretty quickly that we had met previously.  I remembered that the guy in no way appealed to me so I rebuffed his several requests to meet.

The night the four of us were drunkenly snacking at my place, CK read the emails from BB and–without my knowledge–responded that she, posing as me, wanted him to come over that night.

It wasn’t until he was at my building’s front door and the buzzer was ringing that CK told me she had invited him over.  Fuck.  I felt bad that this guy thought I wanted to see him and had come over pretty late, even for a Friday night.

The five of us hung out–until CK quite suddenly left.  She should not have been driving in her state of intoxication but she slipped out past all of us.  She left her friends at my place.  Uh, ok.  I got the Aero bed and bedding for them. While they inflated the bed and settled in downstairs, BB and I went upstairs to my bedroom.

I live in a loft.  There is no privacy except in the bathrooms.  I was drunk.  This guy was really into me, which I needed at the time.  With little regard for my house guests, whom I had only invited under duress, BB and I fucked.  He left before the rest of us woke up.

I don’t know why, but he quickly fell into the rotation; I was fucking a total of four men at the time.  As this was very shortly after my husband had moved out I was still getting my sexual sea legs; I was rediscovering casual sex.

BB and I had decent sex.  We had more anal sex than I’d ever had before or since.  He would fuck my ass five times in a night.  Oh, yeah, he was 24 so he had a lot of stamina.  This was before I got into the habit of having condoms and lube in my house at all times, so he brought the supplies.  I am now convinced he used numbing lube–something that at the time I did not know existed–on my ass without consulting me.  NOT cool.

He was a bit odd in bed too.  He refused to take off his tank top undershirt whenever we fucked.  When I suggested he actually get naked he whined that it was difficult for him to take all his clothes off because he had body image issues.  Boo.  Being that self-conscious during sex makes for some lame fucking.  It’s always the ones who can totally let go and get into the fucking who are best in bed.  If he couldn’t even take his tank top off then he definitely wasn’t into the sex enough.

He wore large-sized condoms for some inexplicable reason.  His penis was incredibly average so I didn’t understand why he used the larger condoms.  I asked him as much.  His explanation was a sheepish, “Because that’s what I wear.”  I informed him that he didn’t need to, and that when they’re too big they fall off.

He wanted a relationship.  I was a mess and knew for sure that a relationship was most definitely not what I wanted or needed.  He was too fucking chipper and nice–he was always trying to cheer me up and take me out.  I eventually just stopped responding to his calls, texts, and emails.

I swear.  True story.

DSC06909

[Meg, guest writer of “Meg and TD” is back with another juicy story and hot photos that can only be seen here.  Enjoy.  –SSF]

I ran across some pictures and was reminded I never told you the story that put my nipple clamp love into overdrive.  It just might change your mind about them.  I know I’ve told you about the boss. There are many stories of us fucking in the rolling bookshelves that would be great scripts for any boss/employee-type porn, but this isn’t a story about that.

However, this was more momentous than getting fucked back in the bookshelves where we could’ve been caught so very easily, with the noise I make I’m surprised we never were.  This happened after his wife found a string of texts that were very explicit and after she had decided she wanted to fuck me too. I can’t remember if we’d all fucked together yet or not at the point of this event.

Regardless, I was in the habit of carrying around my clamps in my purse at the time … and wearing short skirts to work. As a matter of fact, that particular day I had on the same skirt I’ve seen your face under. The boss knew I had the clamps with me. (I’m sure I told him, knowing the horny little slut I was being.) Both of our desks could be viewed by any passersby who cared to look in so he took me back to the bookshelves and he put the clamps on me. He told me I couldn’t take them off until he said so. Him telling me what to do turned me on even more.

They don’t really hurt so much when you first put them on so I bounced back to my desk pain free. Our desks were about 3 feet from each other. I’m sure he was asking me about them, if they hurt, etc., when a co-worker who was always especially fond of my outfits and antics came back to chit chat. (It was a Friday and we were all killing time till time to go.) He mentioned how he liked my get-up and I murmured a thank you of some sort because by this time those little fuckers on my nipples were all I could think of. Mostly because they were starting to hurt, but having someone else in there made them all the naughtier, I felt like he could see right through me. And the boss had this grin on his face that only I knew what from. He could see me squirming and knew I was going to explode. So, of course, he kept the co-worker back there longer than I would’ve liked. Watching me squirm was half the fun.

I’ve never had a hard time with pain and have found that I actually enjoy it. That’s been the source of my fascination with bdsm. I haven’t dipped too much into it besides in my head, with this couple, and with the porn I favor. It excites me and I think I’d love to have someone abuse me in all those ways but really only in my imagination is where all of that is usually played out. There was some point, in night two, you had my legs spread more than they should have been able to be spread and it was making my hamstrings burn and hurt and you were fucking me hard. That moment reminded me of the nipple clamps and that mix of pain and pleasure is something I keep chasing. I wanted you to spread them more, make it hurt more and fuck me harder. I felt like a ragdoll then. I loved it.

DSC07195So the boss was watching me squirm. I tried to hang out in the conversation, but I couldn’t. I turned back around to my machine and pretended to be working. I was trying to apply pressure to my throbbing nipples to relieve them some; I desperately wanted to wait and let the boss take the clamps off. I’d think there was no way I could wait longer, then I’d wait longer. All the while, they were sitting about about 5 feet behind me. My squirms had to be apparent. And I was horny which makes me not sit like a lady and not care. So I waited longer. I don’t even remember what they were yakking about–I’m sure some tv show or football or other boy shit.

My entire body was on fire at that point. I couldn’t stand it any longer. So I went back and took them off. Holy shit, the feelings that rushed through my body at that moment were amazing. And all of it was pulsating from my nipples through the rest of me. Needless to say, my tiny panties were soaked through. So I trotted back out with a look on my face that said to the boss, “Get him the fuck out of here and get back here.”

The co-worker was gone in minutes. The boss took me back to the bookshelves. I had my tits out before I could think and told him to suck them. If you can somehow come from your nipples with nothing touching your pussy then I did then. My entire body went limp. And he sucked and sucked then went to the other one and did the same. He had to hold me up. My nipples had not brought me that much pleasure in years. It was fantastic. My body was on fire and tingly from head to toe. All over. I wanted my tits sucked forever right then.

After he did that, I dropped to my knees and sucked him off–I wanted a dick in my mouth and I didn’t really care if that’s what he wanted or not. He, of course, didn’t mind. I sucked him until he shot his load in my mouth and then I sucked him dry, licking it all up. My body was still humming, my eyes half rolled in the back of my head but I was coherent enough by this point and it was close enough to quitting time that we just bolted.

(That night we were to all three go out. I was very naughty that night; I’m pretty sure strangers may have inadvertently seen my slutty little vagina that night. I had on a short skirt, platform wedges and had taken my panties off and put them in my purse early on in the night. Squatting down to look at something with my knees spread wide gave many quite the view. We were at some hipster art gallery with naked girls on suspended rings, so I fit the scene nicely I’m sure.)

But I’m not done with our Friday afternoon antics. So we walked out to our cars, which were in full view of our office on the 12th floor, if anyone was looking down our way. Once we were there we realized he never spanked me during all of this. He liked to spank me and I’m very fond of that, so it was surprising that it never happened.

However, we couldn’t much do it there, we were too much on display. We found an open stairwell. It was dirty and stinky and didn’t have doors or anything, just open. We went down a flight until we were in the middle of the floors and I put my hands against the cold dirty concrete, sightly bent over. He flipped my skirt up and spanked my ass hard. It echoed in the stairwell, my screams did too. We would’ve been heard easily if anyone was in earshot.

He continued to spank me. He slapped my ass harder than he ever had before and probably harder than I’d ever received. It fucking hurt and I loved it. I knew my skin had to be red as hell; it was on fire. It was wearing me out, all of the endorphins that were being released, mixed with pleasure and combined with the dirty sluttiness of being spanked in a dirty stairwell. And my nipples were still throbbing. I was loud as I wanted to be because I didn’t give a shit, so he hit me harder because he was getting off on the echo and my noises.

We finally calmed down and I took my hot, red, bare ass and rubbed it up against his hard dick through his jeans; they were scratching my worn-out ass and that felt fucking awesome too. We regained some composure and walked back to our cars and went our separate ways to get ready for the evening. I never came (vaginally) during the whole afternoon. But that night, in my living room, with my ass high in the air I was fucked in the ass by a rather large dildo being administered by his wife while he watched, and I came and came.

And now I’m horny as fuck and I want you to ream my ass.

When I was nineteen I took my first–and so far only–trip to New York City.

Through school I had a romantic idea of New York.  When my fifth grade class did reports on cities throughout the world, I chose New York.  When I was in junior high I had a poster of the Manhattan skyline on my bedroom wall.  When I was in high school and thought going to college immediately was an option I sent away for brochures from colleges in New York City.  I must have watched too many movies that made New York look like the greatest city on earth.

Now I know the truth, San Francisco is the best city, ever.

When I was nineteen I lived in South Pasadena and worked in Arcadia, at the Santa Anita Fashion Park, a suburban mall that, at the time, had JC Penny’s and Robinson’s as the anchor stores.  I worked in a B. Dalton Books (the precursor to Barnes & Noble).  It was my first “real” job, meaning I got paid more than minimum wage and I had benefits.  The benefits came in handy when I got my wisdom teeth out.

As a mall B. Dalton we catered to a pretty straight-laced crowd.  We sold a lot of romance novels.  It was during this time that John Grisham burst on the scene.  I read an advance copy of The Firm and wasn’t all that impressed, so later when we received the hardcovers, I was surprised when we repeatedly sold out.

We did have some “edgy” books as well.  It was working there that I read about S&M for the first time.  (Looking at the pictures in my mother’s S&M books didn’t count.)  We got the Madonna Sex book, two copies of which I still own.  We carried The Satanic Verses and American Psycho, but kept them behind the counter so as to avoid “controversy.”

The customers were primarily suburban family folk.  Every once in a while someone interesting would come in.  My friend and coworker, Beth, was lucky enough to find her first boyfriend amongst the customers.  He was a married heroin addict, so he didn’t fit the usual boring mold of the Arcadia shopper.  I don’t think it was possible for Beth to have found someone worse for her, but she found him at B. Dalton Books, not wherever the hell married heroin addicts usually troll for virginal girlfriends.

I’m still in contact with two of my B. Dalton coworkers.  Laura still lives in Southern California and works as a kindergarten teacher.  We’ve been good friends for years, and worked at a total of three different jobs together.  LeUyen lives in the Castro and works as a children’s book illustrator.  She recently found me through Facebook.  It is a complete coincidence that we both now live in San Francisco.

It was during this time I was got the bulk of my tattoos, and because of B. Dalton’s permissive dress code for women (but not men–they had to wear shirts and ties) I got away with wearing clothes that showed my tattoos.  Back in the early 1990s in suburban malls seeing young ladies with tattoos was a novelty (NOT that I was cutting-edge in any way, only that I placed my non-conservative self in conservative situations).  I also had my nose pierced and a bash haircut (head shaved with clippers, leaving only bangs and “sideburns”) [I don’t know if “bash” is the proper term for this ‘do, but my research into “skinhead” hairstyles turned up some bigoted shit I’d rather not read; my high-school girlfriend, Erica, about whom I’ve written in my 1989 diary entries, and who originally cut my hair in the style, called it a “bash” so I do, too.], so I did not look like the typical mall employee of the day.

My appearance invited inquiry, mostly of the stupid variety.  “Did getting that tattoo hurt?” or, “What do your parents think about your nose being pierced?” or, “What are you going to do later when you want to get a real job?”

Being in the customer service game I tried to be polite, but sometimes I gave them the whole truth, which they usually did not appreciate: “Yes, tattoos hurt, a lot” or, “My parents have nothing to do with my life so I don’t really care what they think of my pierced nose, or anything else” or, “I’ll probably figure out how to wear shirts with sleeves if I think my tattoos will affect my employment detrimentally.”

Sometimes I met people who were fascinated by me.  Not because I was all that fascinating, but because I wasn’t ashamed of how I looked, I guess.  One such gentleman gave me his business card.  He told me he was a lawyer, which is why he had “Esq.” following his name on the card.

We talked and it came out that he wanted me to play a dominatrix in a movie he was producing.  I had NO acting aspirations, but I was intensely interested in exploring my desire for power play.  He told me he lived in Manhattan and I would need to go there to audition for him.

He said he’d fly me to him for the audition, but in the mean time I needed to lose weight.  He offered to pay me $10 per pound I lost.  I began jogging nightly.  Being nineteen and living in South Pasadena meant being able to jog late at night, because I was dumb, and because the city was very safe (luckily).

South Pasadena is quite pretty with a lot of jacaranda trees, the fallen lavender blooms of which look amazing in contrast to green grass.  I lived in a studio apartment ($395 per month) across the street from a middle school.  It was quite idyllic.  Jogging at night had a certain scent that I loved.

The guy, let’s call him Mr. Schwartz, sent me a plane ticket.  This was back in the day when an actual plane ticket was required in order to board a plane.  And when people used this thing called the US Postal Service.  It was also back in the day when one could board a plane without fear of being strip-searched by a team of morons.  But I digress ….

At the time I didn’t realize how cheap Mr. Schwartz was by flying me to New York:  coach via an indirect flight through the Dallas Ft. Worth airport.  I know now that he was a cheap ass.  At the time I was just excited to fly so far.  Up to that point it was the farthest I’d gone from my lifetime home, California.  And of course going to New York had been a fantasy for years, so I looked past (or was too inexperienced to notice) a lot.

I flew into LaGuardia.  Mr. Schwartz had given me explicit instructions on what to say to a cab driver to get me to his apartment.  I think he was on either the Upper East Side or Upper West Side–he was on 60-something Street, I think; he was definitely close to Central Park.  He lived in a high-rise building with a door man, which I thought was so New York.

I arrived at his apartment and he gave me a tour.  It was a two-bedroom apartment with great views.  Even at my tender age and ignorance of real estate I realized that the view of the Empire State Building was fucking amazing.

He showed me to my room, which he told me was his daughters’ room when they stayed with him.  That’s when I learned that both of his daughters were older than I, though by a very few number of years.  At the time I thought nothing of it; now I know it’s fucking horrifying.

Even creepier:  I was a full thirty years younger than Mr. Schwartz; he was 49 years old.

Mr. Schwartz also showed me his insulin supply:  he was diabetic and wanted me to know what I needed to do should he need some medical aid.  I remember pretty much ignoring what he told me and thinking that I had no interest in giving this old guy any sort of medicinal attention.

After I put my stuff away Mr. Schwartz and I went out to a Chinese restaurant to eat.  During the meal I told him that I had given it some thought but that I wasn’t so interested in playing the dominatrix role.  I told him I was more comfortable playing the submissive role in a movie.

Mr. Schwartz was very amenable to my seemingly-sudden switch (pun intended, though not completely understood at the time).  After dinner we went back to his place.

I next recall (this was fifteen years ago) that we were on the bed of “my” bedroom.  He lay on the bed.  I remember him asking me to pay with his “friends.”  I was confused.  What friends?  Was someone else showing up?

The friends?  His balls!  Yes, he called his balls his friends.  To this day I have not encountered a man who calls his balls his friends, with or without irony.

As part of the “audition” process he had to see if I could take pain.  He spanked me.  I don’t recall if he used anything other than his hand, but I think he may have.  Following the spanking he soothed my burning bum with witch hazel-soaked cotton.  I think that was a nice touch.

We then slept in our respective bedrooms.  I didn’t close the blinds so I could see the view of Manhattan as I drifted off to sleep.

To be continued ….

I swear.  True story.

9:09 pm

9:20 pm

I want to call Amy but Mom’s already told me not to make any long-distance calls.  Shit, I just want to be reassured that no one’s forgotten me.  And that they still care.  Maybe if I beg, she’ll let me.  I just remembered the young girl in “Dangerous Liasons.”  She had the prettiest breasts I have ever seen in my life.  If I ever get a chance to see those kind of breats in person I will probably go crazy and stare for a while then touch gently and slowly watching the nipples become erect.  Anyway–back to life, back to reality.  What is there to eat?  I’m watching new music awards on MTV.  It’s mostly alternative music.  Jane’s Addiction got an award for album cover.  The Red Hot Chili Peppers sang–the lead singer has a great body and really long, pretty hair.  Oh, and Mike B., the Flea is not dead because I saw him on stage.  So Chriz in my econ class can go to hell for telling me he had died and getting me depressed.  I’m jealous of Amy and Erica because they get to sleep with each other.  They can wake up any time and do whatever (as Erica says Amy does) and then wake up next to each other.  They don’t have to worry about someone coming home because they are home and Amy’s parents don’t even suspect.  Whenever I think back to stuff it seems just as unreal as one of my little day dreams.  But then I realize that it was real, I think.  It seems so long ago that I talked to anyone I know (Erica, Amy, Juree) but it was actually only two days ago.  I think back and get so afraid that I’ll never see them again or that they won’t like me.  Why the hell am I so paranoid?  I just need someone to be close to.  I want to be able to tell someone (Amy) that I feel greatly for her.  The trouble is I don’t know in what way that I feel.  Maybe it’s just sexual.  She asked me if I was alright.  Why do people always ask that?  Robbie, Mike, Amy.  But Amy sounded genuine and not scared.  She also said that I was shaking and then said, “Oh, I’m shaking too.”  I was sitting on the stool with my legs open when she came and stood between them and said something like, “Oh, you’re ready, aren’t ya?”  Anyway, my legs wrapped around her and that’s when her concern started.  I like just hugging and we did that for a little bit while breathing heavy.  Then some time after that Erica came a-knocking.  Oh, and Amy was biting my neck so I thought I’d have marks and I was totally paranoid that someone’d see.  And then they’d just deduce that I didn’t have any hickeys before lunch and they’d ask who the guy was and I wouldn’t be able to think of a name on such short notice and then they’d know I was with a girl and they’d spread the ol’ rumor as fast as the speed of gossip (juicy, at that) and then I wouldn’t have any friends, not even Amy and Erica because they’d be so pissed at me because I let it out, then I’d be all alone and depressed and then die and never be anything and never know what I could’ve done ’cause I’d be dead as a doornail.  Well, anyway, I looked in a mirror after 5th period to find not the slightest mark on my neck.  Boy, was I happy.  After school I missed my bus so I had to take another one that went all over El Dorado Hills.  So I didn’t get home until after 4:30 and then I had to pack for L.A.  (I’m here now.)  Mom called and we talked about DJ picking me up.  And I tried calling Amy twice–both times the answering machine came on, which of course I refused to talk to.  She must have been at work.  Life is so depressing.  DJ said it’d get better in four to five years.  Oh yea.  I’m so organized now that I’m sure I can still handle four to five years of worsened hell.  Gosh, I’m so excited.  She seems and talks so self-confidently but she’s scared just like the rest of the world and society–screwed just like the others of us.  And she said so herself that all her psychologists thought she was tweaked because she always lied and I was the first person she told the truth to.  So I’m going to try to get Erica for my subject in Lifeskills.  She would be perfect but I don’t know if we’re allowed to be previously emotionally involved.  So I’ll have to ask Mr. H.  I am quite emotionally involved not only because I’m her friend because I’m choosing an alternative lifestyle also.  I don’t have the heart to–no, not nerve–more like nerve to say I’m gay.  Because I don’t want to be.  I’m doing fine experimenting and I probably will all my life but I know I still like guys.  Maybe it’s like DJ says–so you always have a date.  But she’s not bisexual so maybe she just doesn’t understand.  I don’t myself.  Someone bisexual sounds like someone who’ll pick up anyone who’ll pick them up–male or female.  Well, for me that’s just about true.  Amy was saying that if we were all honest with each other we’d end up in the same room doing it together and she couldn’t handle it.  I don’t think I’d want other people to see me get out of control–I don’t think I would if there were other people because I’d be too self-conscious.  But I like to watch other people–not participate, just watch.  It would be neat to see them get out of control.  But how do I expect that someone else wouldn’t be a little worried if I would be?  Ok, so I’m being illogical but at least honest.  It would be fun to watch Juree and Erica because they’re quite used to each other and Juree I think gets off easily.  I’m not sure yet why I wouldn’t want to watch Amy and Erica.  Maybe because I’d be jealous or because I’ve never seen how they act together intimately.  Am I going to have to burn more incense?  I still haven’t gone Christmas shopping, but oh well.  I want to hear “Janie’s Got a Gun” but they’re just playing dumb shit like Paul McCartney.  So tired, 2:39 am.

10:59 am

Had a dream about Amy.  [Step-Sister] and I were shopping and I saw Amy.  We ran up to each other and hugged like we do when we see each other in econ.  But then we ran quick as possible to try to find some place private to get intimate.  It was quite interesting because I don’t usually have dreams about people until long after I’ve stopped thinking about them.  I just remembered the dream I had about SB when I kissed her.  Maybe I have had a crush on S.  But considering I dislike her so much, I don’t think so.  But then again, maybe.

2:20 pm

If I told Dad and [Step-Mother] that I was interested in both guys and girls, they wouldn’t let me have anyone over, just in case.  I would like just to be honest with them and tell them what I’m doing and how I am without being stopped or judged.  [Step-Sister] already knows about Juree and perhaps

3:50 pm

if I remember right, Erica, and I hope not, but I think so, Amy.  I can remember [Step-Sister] saying, “So you’re the only straight one,” or something of that nature.  If she knew, she’d start asking me rude, embarrassing questions about why or how.  But I don’t know why if not because it’s love right now.  I wonder if Amy just started because I’m around, available, and accepting, or if she liked me before.  Probably the former.  I want to be special to someone but when I realize I’m not, I can accept being just one of the many.  This two weeks is going to last an awful long time.  I keep having little sexual day dreams.  They’re nice and all but I have to do other things.

6:15 pm

Bored, no energy, in a slump.  Why?  Thinking about what’s going on at home.  Want to spend New Year’s Eve or Day with just the four of us.  Just the four of us have never spent time alone together.  Maybe I’m just being sentimental but these three people are going to be sharing my life with me for a while.  I don’t like being alone–being alone down here not knowing anyone with nothing to do is not fun.  I like just being about to walk over someplace and simply hang out together talking or relaxing discussing philosophy, etc.  Of course I’m being slightly sarcastic about the philosophy but I love just sitting there and saying stuff like, “Why the hell do people put trees in their houses at Christmas time?”  I want to get a close open relationship amongst us all that we can use in the future.  Once again I’m being selfish because I’m only thinking how it will help me be a better person.  But maybe it will benefit them also.  I’m stilll at Ruth’s house watching them put crap on the Christmas three.  Janie’s got a gun.  Maybe it seems as if I’m on a bummer.  Wait, I’m beginning to sound like [Step-Mother].  Fuck her, I’m doing just fine.  When Amy and I were done, after Erica had come and left, I asked Amy if she was thinking about Juree.  She said not, that she was thinking about me.  “But why?” asked I.  She didn’t answer to I don’t know why.  I didn’t really get to say good-bye properly to any of them but not a word except at the end of lunch to Amy.  I don’t think I really think of them as individual people, more as a untit–the three of them, the four of us.  But how long will it last?  Oh gee, I hope Amy can’t stop thinking about me because I was so good.  Not good really, that makes it sound cheap, more like me–thinking of me.  Whenever I kiss let myself be pushed back because I’m so comme çi, comme ça just relaxed–complete subservience that’s me.  For some reason I’m thinking of this trip as some sort of turning point.  Everything will be different in some way when I return.  Perhaps the newness will have worn off.  Will they still want me?  Not sexually, but as a friend.  Anyway, I hope Amy is talking about how good I am.  Which I hope I am because that’s a good attribute.  But anyone who gets excited as easily as I do must excite the other person.  Erica told me I was a great kisser even after I told her she wasn’t anything to shout about.  And I’ve been told before that I’m a passionate kisser (thank you, Mike) so heck, I must be pretty good.  But I don’t want to get an ego about it and go around telling people about it ’cause then if they ever kiss me they might be disappointed.  Erica told me she was good, but I doubted at the time she thought she would ever kiss me.  She said that Juree was a good kisser.  I’d like to find out but Juree is a commendable person and doesn’t want to cheat.  So I’d like not to be forgotten by anyone.  When I go back I want to be celebrated.  I think my hormones are working overtime because I keep thinking about going back and getting sex.  Amy has the most adorable nose and that little swirl on the back of her neck.  And her body’s got a good shame–little, tight, but not tiny.  Litle like tallness.  Big, large, round, full, voluptuous breasts and the rest of her body is proportioned well.  Erica has a really nice stomach.  Flat, smooth, white, hairless, slightly rounded.  Anyway, I guess I’ve always known but not quite admitted it.  Mary has a cute little  butt and nice legs but she’s just a wee-bit too hairy.  Lisa has big boobs but you’d be afraid of smothering.  Without a bra she must sag something fierce.  But guys’ bodies are great too.  I still have yet to see Rick without a shirt but I know it would be nice.