We agreed to meet at Dolores Park.  I’d learned my lesson long before that people who post ads on Craig’s List are often flakes so I always prepare for no one to show up.  I often take Isis to Dolores Park anyway, so if she didn’t show the day wouldn’t be wasted.

I had responded to her ad in the Casual Encounters w4w section.  Her ad wasn’t long, but it was more interesting than the usual, “I have a boyfriend and want to explore my naughty bi side.”  She had a bottle of absinthe and wanted to share it, and possibly herself, with an interesting woman.

We met in the park and sat and chit-chatted while Isis ran around a bit.  We discovered we had attended two different schools at the same time, but had no clue the other existed until the meeting in the park.

She was hot.  Very much my type of woman: a bit dykey, thin but curvy, and with small, perky breasts.  She was obviously not wearing a bra that day in the park, and I loved seeing her nipples push up against the fabric of her halter top.

I lost my cell phone in the park that day.  I suspected some people who were sitting near us stole it so I confronted them.  They denied it, but not until after telling me, in Spanish, to suck their collective dick.  I was so proud that I knew that one phrase and told them so.  Despite my lame behavior she seemed to want to spend more time with me.

I walked back to my house with Isis while Ms. Absinthe drove to her place, conveniently located in Noe Valley, to get the bottle of absinthe she had advertised having.  Once at my house she poured us drinks.  Not only did we taste the delicious absinthe, but she gave me a lesson on why it’s drunk diluted with water, and what the clouding is called.  She was preparing to be the bartender at a prohibition-themed party and wanted to be able to do more than just pour so she was practicing on me.  She did an excellent job.

We got along quite well.  She kissed me.  I’m always surprised when a woman whom I find attractive is attracted to me.  It doesn’t come from a self-loathing place; I am simply not my type.

She had great breasts.  They were nice and little and soft with nipples that got hard in the most delicious way when I bit down on them.  I hadn’t done more than kiss a woman in over ten years and was worried about my performance.  She later assured me by email, “Actually, I’d say I had a rather nice fucking.  Thank you very much.”  So fucking cool.

We quickly began to spend all of our free time together.  As neither of us was employed, we had a lot of free time.  Also because neither of us was employed, we didn’t have any damn money to do anything much more than hang out at my house.

We watched “the L Word” together.  Cliché I know, but I watched the show anyway, not just because I was seeing a woman.

We cooked at my place several times a week.  She made me corned beef and cabbage, which I’d only had once before.  Together we made and froze what seemed like a gross of won tons.  We made a yummy gnocchi with meat sauce, all from scratch.  I made my beef short ribs and mashed potatoes for her brother when he was in town.  She took me to restaurants I’d never been before and was impressed when I liked chicken feet and all the pig parts.

Things became intense very quickly.  We had great sex.

Just a few weeks after we met, we took a trip to Orr Hot Springs.  Ms. Absinthe had a Mini Cooper and loved to drive.  She liked that I had no problem with her taking the windy roads of Mendocino County at a nice clip.  I thought it was sexy that she was a good driver.  Orr was really nice.  We stayed overnight in the yurt just outside the front gate.  There were private rooms with huge claw-foot tubs big enough for two.  The water was hot and mineral-rich.  From the main pool of the “resort” we could see daffodils in bloom all over the surrounding hillsides.

Before too long our relationship went from fun and light to Ms. Absinthe asking  “where we stand.”  I made it clear that I didn’t want a “real” relationship, and that there was NO way I was going to be monogamous, but that I really did dig her scene.

We continued to have hot, hot sex.  We took a couple of trips to Good Vibrations on Valencia to get supplies, including lube and gloves.  It had never occurred to me to have sex with gloves before Ms. Absinthe introduced the idea.  I now buy boxes of medical-grade nitrile gloves for use during sexy times.  They’re a whole lot of fun all lubed up.  Great for fisting.

Ms. Absinthe was the first person who fisted me.  And I was the first person she fisted.  They were intensely intimate experiences for both of us.  She wrote me a poem on the subject:

On your couch

I kiss your mouth
and slowly breathe you in.
Your teeth, lightly gnash against my skin.
You begin to tweak and twist my nipples until I gasp,
I find my way between your legs
grinding my hand onto your wet pussy
back and forth, up and down,
finally pressing in.
You bite harder, I push deeper.
My clenched fist
inside your cunt;
I can barely move.
You’re so fucking tight, and so fucking hot.
Your walls clamp down around my hand
I just want to punch right through.
Thrusting your pelvis higher; you’re telling me to fuck you harder, to fuck you faster,
to fuck you forever.
Your body undulating to your own rhythm,
I’m entranced by the sway of your hips, lulling me closer.
I can’t keep my eyes off your twisting shape.
Now I’m on top of you.
But I can’t get any deeper,
I can only fuck you desperately, fuck you faster.

Our sex life was not a problem. One of our trips to Good Vibrations resulted in the purchase of Tristan Taormino‘s  The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex for Women 2nd Edition.  We read it together and utilized some of its many tips when we incorporated anal play into our sex.

As our sex life together was developing we discussed strap-ons.  Neither of us had any experience using a harness, but we were willing to try.  Further discussions resulted in us agreeing that she would pick out the harness that she felt most comfortable using, and I would pick out the big, thick cock with which I wanted her to fuck me.

We went to Good Vibrations … and chickened out.  The Good Vibrations on Valencia had roughly 15 feet of wall space devoted to various harnesses and the implements that can be put in them.  Here we were, two well-educated, adult, sex-positive women who really wanted to expand their sex lives, but even we were intimidated.

Because while Good Vibrations has an open, non-judgmental environment it does not have any privacy.  Ms. Absinthe would have had to try on any harnesses out there on the store floor; and I would have had to pick out a number of dildos for her to try on with each harness out there in the open.  We were not ashamed in any way of what we wanted to do, but not being ashamed does not equal wanting everyone in a store knowing what we’re planning on doing in private.

Nonetheless, our sex continued to evolve, and continued to be good.  Our relationship, however, wasn’t so good.

Ms. Absinthe kept wanting to talk about our feelings and what we wanted from each other.  I just wanted to hang out and have fun.  I was still trying to figure out what it meant to be a divorced woman in her mid-30s.  I was getting used to being single, but I wasn’t yet divorced.  Neither I nor the Ex had even bothered to file for divorce yet, though it was clear we would not be trying to reconcile.

Only Ms. Absinthe didn’t believe that the Ex and I weren’t trying to reunite.  Ms. Absinthe and the Ex met, and got along pretty well.  I think because she saw that he and I were civil (we had animals to co-parent after all) that that meant we should get back together.  She didn’t seem to believe me when I assured her there was no way he and I would ever get back together even if we were friendly with each other.

The words I said to Ms. Absinthe didn’t seem to get through to her.  She appeared to think I was being dishonest, or just wasn’t admitting everything to her.  However, I was nothing if not brutally honest.  Despite my assertions that I don’t make pronouncements lightly, she just didn’t seem to believe me when I said the Ex and I would never get together again and that I had no interest in being in a monogamous relationship.

To that end, I continued to fuck men when I could, and it was during this time I had the threesome with Mr. Zip and the 21-year-old booze hound.  I told Ms. Absinthe exactly what I was planning on doing that night and suggested she stay at her own place.  She opted to stay at my place, and was still up at 5am when I got home.  That was definitely troublesome.

Things were going bad, and fast.  She was at my place all the time, and I value my alone time, more than the average person, I think.  I began doing what I did when the Ex and I were living together and I needed to be alone in a loft apartment–I used ear buds and listened to podcasts whether home alone or not.  Pretty rude behavior when one has a house guest, but being at my house constantly was also rather rude of Ms. Absinthe.

She became needy, and our sex went from hot to me turning her down as often as I could get away with without generating a discussion.  I was a fucking bitch to her most of the time.  I really am shitty at breaking up when I know the relationship should end.  So I do the chickenshit move of cheating (on the Ex) or in some other way making the prospect of being with me miserable.  No, I am not proud of myself.

The last time we saw each other Ms. Absinthe picked up toothpaste she had left at my place after a trip to Costco.  She texted me a birthday wish soon thereafter.  My emails requesting friendship went unanswered.

I swear.  True story.

Today is my birthday.  I’m trying not to feel old.  And feeling sorry for myself is just boring.

Geminis kick ass.  It’s true.  Really, think about it–the Geminis you know are cool people.  And Geminis get along well with other Geminis, which means we’re not self-loathing, always a good thing.  I even have a Gemini tattoo.Photo 36

Some interesting people with May 30 birthdays:

  • Cee-Lo (b. 1974) of Gnarles Barkley;
  • Manny Ramirez (b. 1972), baseball player–actually I don’t give a fuck about him, but I’ve heard of him and some of you might give a shit;
  • Wynonna Judd (b. 1964)–again, don’t give a shit, but I’ve heard of her;
  • Colm Meany (b. 1953)–pretty cool actor;
  • Christine Jorgensen (b. 1926)–transsexual pioneer.

More interesting are the May 30 deaths:

  • Perry Ellis (d. 1986)–fashion designer;
  • Voltaire (d. 1778)–French philospher dude who died a painful death;
  • Christopher Marlowe (d. 1593)–contemporary of Shakespeare who died, on May 30, after being stabbed in a bar fight when he was 29; he wrote Edward II, the film version of which I saw and dissected in a queer theory film class that fulfilled a requirement of my college minor–Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Studies;
  • Joan of Arc (d. 1431).  When I was four my mother had her first female lover 41aoTuHIh2L._SS500_(her word, not mine), Dawn, who was a radical feminist.  She told me that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake on my birthday.  Dawn gave me a Joan of Arc poster that hung on my bedroom wall for years.  (I would know the poster if I saw it again–Joan in silhouette kneeling– but so far no luck; I like this one though.)  Dawn explained that Joan of Arc was a feminist well before anyone knew what a feminist was because she fought in a war disguised as a man; that she was brave by doing something women weren’t allowed to do at the time.  I now know that Joan was a bit of a religious nut job, but I do like Dawn’s explanation to four-year-old me.

And not that I give two fucks about marriage, but some famous people have gotten married on May 30.  Some are even still married.

Ani DiFranco
  • Charlie Sheen & Brooke Allen (2008)–douche and arm candy wife; still married, but I don’t hold much hope considering his track record;
  • Richard Dreyfuss & Janell Lacey (1999)–divorced;
  • Ani DiFranco & Andrew Gilchrist (1998)–cool chick (that’s her over there ——>) who hasn’t sold out to the man; divorced;
  • Joe Strummer & Lucinda Mellor (1995)–he died in 2002, but they weren’t divorced;
  • Paul Simon & Edie Brickell (1992)–music royalty, of a sort; still married;
  • Clarence Thomas & Virginia Lamp (1987)–Supreme Court Justice/conservative ass and the woman who has to put up with his pubic hair on soda cans and everywhere else; still married;
  • Kelsey Grammer & Doreen Alderman (1982)–divorced;
  • Tommy Lee Jones & Kimerlea Gayle Cloughley (1981)–divorced;
  • Natalie Wood & Richard Gregson (1969)–divorced; hottie Natasha Gregson Wagner‘s biological parents;
  • Dolly Parton & Carl Dean (1966)–still married, though there have been rumors for years that Carl is Dolly’s beard.

May 30 was the original Memorial Day, before it was changed to fall on the last Monday of May so people could get a day off work.  Basically, if you weren’t born on the 150th day of the year, your life is barely worth living.  Maybe you should die a tragic death today so you’ll at least have something.

Notice I have a “Donate” button now?  Yeah, that’d be a nice birthday present.

I swear.  True story.

My first job was at Taco Bell.  My step-sister and I are the same age, with our birthdays only two months apart.  After my birthday, the later of the two, our parents–her mother, my father–sat us down and told us that now that we were sixteen we had to get jobs.

We panicked.  We lived in a crappy suburb of Sacramento, California, which is itself a crappy suburb that just happens to be the capital of California.  (To be fair, I think all suburbs are crappy.)  Driving was required to get anywhere, only we didn’t have cars or drivers’ licenses.  The town had no public transportation whatsoever.  Our parents had been making it clear for years that they did not like giving us rides anywhere.

The only jobs in the town were in the food service industry.  The town is between Sacramento and Tahoe, so it’s a common stop for people on road trips.  There were many fast-food franchises and a few “fancy” places too, like Sizzler.  But none of these places were particularly close to our house–definitely not walking distance.

We both applied for jobs at Taco Bell.  I remember actually being worried that we wouldn’t get hired.  Of course my worry was unfounded.  We were both hired without fanfare and issued maroon polyester pants and “Run for the Border” t-shirts in nice 80s pastels.

Our parents still refused to help us get to or from work but suggested we ride our bikes.  I, however, did not have a bicycle.  To this day I have never owned a bike.  My dad was nice enough to let me borrow his bicycle, a man’s 10-speed with a frame too large for my height.  I had to tip the bike to the side just to get on the seat.  My feet reached the pedals, barely.

The town had one major road that ran perpendicular to the freeway.  The speed limit in practice was around 45mph.  There was no bike lane; there was no sidewalk.  In order to ride to and from work we had to utilize the very small space between the white line marking the outside of the lane and the edge of the asphalt.  Beyond the asphalt was gravel, and potential maiming.  We rode our bikes on this road even at night, without lights, and without helmets.

Obviously I wasn’t killed on the side of that stupid road, but I’m still bitter that my parents were such assholes.

Everyone had his/her specialty at Taco Bell.  I was assigned to the drive-thru on most of my shifts.  On the register was a golden plaque that read, “UPSELL” to remind us to always ask the customers if they wanted anything else.  I utilized the somewhat silly, “Would you like Cinnamon Crispas with that?”

During my tenure at Taco Bell they stopped selling Cinnamon Crispas, which were fried flour tortilla pieces dredged in cinnamon and sugar, and started selling Cinnamon Twists, weird dry pasta-looking things that were fried and dredged in cinnamon and sugar.  Jeremy (his real name) was the fry guy.

Jeremy stood over vats of oil and fried the Crispas, and later the Twists.  He also fried the bowls for the taco salads, and the chips for the nachos.  Everything that was deep fried at that Taco Bell, Jeremy made.  Jeremy went to my high school but I didn’t know him at school at all.  The most amazing thing about Jeremy was the fact that he had the most beautiful, clear skin.  A teenager and a fry cook, but not a blemish in sight.  It really was incredible.

When school ended in June I continued to work at Taco Bell.  Because of the labor law’s application to minors I was allowed to work longer and later hours when school wasn’t in session.  Occasionally, when I worked late a co-worker would give me a ride home so I didn’t have to ride my bike in the dark.

Along with my parents being assholes about the transportation issue, they were assholes about letting me do anything other than work.  Usually when I asked if I could do something I was told no.  Consequently, I stopped asking and began sneaking.

One night Jeremy and I closed the Taco Bell together.  He told me he was on his way to a party and asked if I wanted to join him.  I knew I wouldn’t have been allowed to go if I asked my parents; they would have wanted to talk to the host’s parents, and make sure there wasn’t any alcohol served before they’d consent.  I assumed the host’s parents weren’t around, thus giving a reason for the party.  So without asking my parents, I went to the party with Jeremy.

I was right, there were no parents at the party.  And there was alcohol.  At the time I did not drink because of a nasty little alcohol overdose I’d had when I was fourteen.  Jeremy and I hung out for a while, and then we went for a drive.  We were bored but not yet ready to go to our respective homes.  Also, I figured I was going to get in trouble anyway so I might as well have enough fun so the punishment would be worth something.

Somehow we ended up in Folsom.  Jeremy parked the car in a random subdivision.  We talked.  I sucked his fingers.  And that’s when things changed.

Up to this point I’d had limited sexual experiences, none of which included a penis entering my vagina.  My first finger bang was part of a Big Red-flavored make-out session on a football field with Terrence (also his real name) when I was in ninth grade.  I’d had serious dry humping sessions here and there.  I might have given a blow job by this point, but I can’t recall.  I was most definitely still a virgin.

The way I felt at the time was that everyone had had sex but me.  I was convinced I was the last virgin out of all my friends.  My step-sister had lost her virginity a full two years prior, when we were fourteen.  I was getting left behind.

I was so awkward and insecure around boys that I’m sure I passed up a lot of opportunities because I was too clueless to notice when someone was actually into me.  But I was not going to let the time alone in a car with Jeremy go to waste.  As soon as I began sucking his fingers it was clear what we were going to do.

We got into the car’s back seat.  It was Jeremy’s mother’s Ford of some sort.  There was some lumbering making out, and then we were having sex.  Oh.  My.  God.  He was on top of me grunting and sweating.  There wasn’t much room to move.

I had always heard that teenage boys didn’t last very long when they were fucking.  I don’t know how much time had elapsed as he clumsily pushed his penis into me, but I was concerned that he would come inside me.  We weren’t using a condom. I said, “You’re going to pull out, right?”

At which point he pulled out.  I have no idea if he came.  I certainly did not.  We were finding our clothes when a loud tap at the window and a bright light got our attention.  Jeremy lowered the window and greeted the police officer very politely.

Jeremy hastily put on his pants and got out of the car.  As I was getting dressed the cop told us that someone in one of the many houses within our view had called the police because of our “suspicious activity.”  He asked us how old we were.  Jeremy answered that he was seventeen.  For some reason I thought it would look bad if he was older than me, so I lied and said I, too, was seventeen.  The police officer told us to leave.

Jeremy got in the driver’s seat and looked back at me.  I was so embarrassed I couldn’t make eye contact.  He was waiting for me to get in the front seat but I decided to stay where I was.  Neither one of us said anything while he drove me home.

He dropped me off in front of my house and drove away without a word.  It wasn’t until I reached into my empty pocket that I realized my house keys were still in the back seat of Jeremy’s mother’s car.  This was well before cell phones were in common use; I had no way to contact him.

I had to get in my house without my parents knowing how late I’d been out, so knocking on the door and waking them up was not an option.  I also was not ready to face my parents after having just had sex for the first time.  I checked the back door–locked, dammit.  The kitchen window was slightly ajar.

However, the bottom of the window was well above my head.  I found something to stand on but still had to jump to get my arms over the sill.  I hung there with my head, shoulders, and arms inside, and the rest of my body outside.  I tried to gain purchase by scraping my feet on the wall.  I was panicked.  My mind was darting everywhere and nowhere to try to figure out how the hell I was going to get myself out of the pickle when the kitchen light turned on.

My step-mother stood in the kitchen doorway.  She looked very sleepy.  And pissed (but she always looked angry).  I dropped to the ground, she let me in the back door, and I went to bed.

The next day I got one my my step-mother’s infamous lectures.  A form of punishment was to have to endure her harangue non-stop for at least an hour.  This particular speech lasted much longer than that.  Everything she said was repeated countless times.  I had learned soon after I moved in with her when I was eleven that it was best to say as little as possible when on the receiving end of one of her diatribes.  I answered direct questions with one-word responses if possible.  I said, “I don’t know” a lot.  If I had said too much, it would have meant her discourse would have continued even longer, because she would have felt the need to address everything I said, point by minute point.

The gist of this particular exhortation was clear:  She did not know where I was the night before but she suspected I was either at a bar (since the alcohol overdose when I was fourteen every time I left the house she thought I was getting wasted) or fucking; and I was lucky she didn’t shoot me right there in the kitchen window (she did not have a gun).  I did not tell her what I was doing or with whom I was doing it.  I did tell her I had not been at a bar, and I still wonder what bar she thought would let in a sixteen-year-old.

I’m sure I was grounded, but I was still allowed to go to work.  Jeremy’s friend, our co-worker, had heard about Jeremy and me and teased me about it.  I learned from this co-worker that Jeremy, too, had been a virgin, and that Jeremy was moving to Minnesota.  I never saw Jeremy again.  I never even talked to Jeremy again.

I vowed then that I would never again fuck in a car.  I haven’t and I won’t.  However, there’s nothing wrong with road head.

I swear.  True story.

Correctional Officer (CO) broke up my marriage.

Well, he was the final nail in the coffin which contained my marriage.  I don’t blame him in any way.  For a long time I blamed myself, and punished myself accordingly.  But the end of my marriage was just a change in the relationship with the Ex.  I am proud that the Ex and I are still friends because I love him so much.  He still drives me fucking nuts sometimes, but I love him and want him to always be in my life.

I met CO on May 31, 2007.  There are several reasons I remember this.  One is that it was the day after my birthday.

I had spent my birthday at a goddamn Applebee’s (which deserves a mention only as an illustration of the sheer shit factor of that birthday) because that was the best dining option.  I was in a shit town in northeast California (that deserves no mention whatsoever) for work.  I was bored as fuck because there was nothing to do.  Towns like that are why people do meth.  If I had had to stay there much longer, I probably would’ve given meth a try because the town was so utterly dull.

My big birthday party was at the Applebee’s bar, where I ate a shitty “salad,” and had only one drink because I had to drive.  One of the many reasons I love living in San Francisco is that I don’t have to drive to get shit done, and I can drink a whole lot without worrying about how I’m going to get home.  I don’t even have a car; I rent out my space for fun and profit (that’s a fun double entendre).  I had no interest in being arrested for drunk driving in that crap town.  To be fair, I have no interest in being arrested for any reason in any place.

During the week I was there I had finished reading two books, watched too much tv, gone on pointless un-scenic drives, went to the mall where the anchor stores were Sears and Hot Topic, and experienced a lot of spiritless tedium.  I did discover Cash Cab on that trip, and I met Correctional Officer, so it wasn’t a complete–if billable–waste of time.

The night after my birthday I decided I was going to try to have some actual fun, or whatever could approximate fun there.  I went to the town’s one “fancy” restaurant; the one about which everyone I spoke to gushed.  It was mediocre at best.  I dined alone and finished a bottle of wine so I was good to go.

Go to one of two dive bars across the street from the restaurant I did.  I sat at the bar where the bartender served me my beverage in a plastic cup–wouldn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to smash the barware into anyone’s face.  The bartender–I promise and swear on all things I hold dear–was visibly quite far along in her pregnancy and smoking.  NOT smoking hot–though she may have been to some.  She was smoking cigarettes.  I’m sure there are Websites dedicated to cigarette-smoking knocked-up chicks (look ’em up yourselves you deviant pervs (written with affection, I swear!)) but that is most definitely not my thing.  Had I been on Twitter at the time, the sheer sight of her would have been tweet-worthy.

California has had a law banning cigarette smoking in public places for quite a few years–they were instituted when I worked at the pool hall several years prior to my visit to this particular dive bar.  The impetus/justification for the passage of the law was workers’ rights not to breathe in second-hand smoke.  Bars can bypass the law by being worker-owned.  Because my lovely smoking preggers bartender was, in fact, smoking, I assumed she was at least part-owner of the bar–I tipped according to my perception of her situation.

Eventually I began to chat with a cute guy.  He invited me to hang with him and his friends who were playing pool.  Despite my years of working at a pool hall I am a shit pool player, but I was willing to watch.  The cute guy’s friends were also cute.  They introduced themselves to me and we began to chit-chat.  I was talking shit about their town and they contributed their own stories of local woe.  Someone eventually bought me a drink after I all but demanded he do so.  Finally, it was time to go and somehow I invited the guys back to my hotel room.

More to come ….

I swear. True Story.