This is Mike, along w/some Playboy chicks (I think).  I know, he’s a catch, which is apparent from the fact that he is surrounded by women in body paint.  Mike was following me on Twitter, and when he made a couple of @ responses to me I followed him back.  Then I realized he only @ responded with stupid things so I unfollowed him.  He continued to follow me and to make lame comments that, frankly, were stupid to tweet at all.  I gave him my email address in an effort to curb his stupid remarks Twitter-wide.

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Hi Suzanne,

I am glad I got your attention this morning. You almost always have mine with your fun, witty, and sexually charged twitters. I have often read your blog as well. I certainly enjoy a women who is open and honest with her sexual awareness and wants and needs. I hate fucking games back and forth and being coy and tentative so as not to accidentally offend. I have never been to SF, but it sure an area I would love to come to sometime. I was just in LA in May for my birthday week and spent time at the Playboy Mansion, and the Playboy Radio Studios as well.

A few words about myself, I am a too honest kind of guy, and have been in an open lifestyle for many years. I have been a nudist since the late 90s while I was married and after my divorce I have enjoyed nudist resorts and currently a member of two of them near Tampa Fl. I live in a home just north of Tampa about 30 miles from the resorts.

I also have been an amateur photographer and have traveled all over the States and Canada and even Jamaica to events held with a Voyeuristic and Exhibitionist website (Redclouds.com)in which I was a monitor of. I have taken over 30,000 photos and often think that my new career should be in that line of work. I retired after 26 years of retail management with a drugstore chain.

I am very spontaneous man who often books an adventure last minute and enjoy spending time with and meeting friends with similar interests. I pretty much say it like it is, and I notice you are very much the same way. As a women, it is often more acceptable to be openly blunt and in your face, but I find people take men being the same way, not as acceptable. I am sure you get many a pass from twitterers of all types.

So my nickname is WAG which stands for What a Guy or Gentleman. That is not to say I don’t enjoy an adventure or outing but I also know the word RESPECT as well.

So anyways, I would be very open to talk about you coming to Florida for a visit and I can pass on some “references” that you will not be jeopardizing your life if you decide to come.  I think as you get to know me, you will find that to be very true as well.

So, yes I would invite you to come out and we can make plans of what you would like to see and do when you are out here. I be more than happy to call you and discuss and get to know each other to see if there is more to us than just a twitter friendship.

I will leave you my number and look forward to hearing from you and your ideas and obtaining your number so I can call. I am enjoying reading your diary entries from 20 years ago to see how you have come to be the woman you are.

Til we talk,
Mike- Wag [surname]

[phone number]

From: S M <shazamsf@sbcglobal.net>
To: [Mike]
Sent: Thursday, June 25, 2009 12:40:32 PM
Subject: Re: Its nice to say hello

I literally could not read past “a women.”  If you don’t know what’s wrong with that then I have no interest in communicating with you.

@ShazamSF:  There is NOWHERE in the universe where “a women” is EVER correct. EVER.

[On memory from @[Mike] (only not so articulate):  You should have responded directly to me regarding my article-subject-agreement fuck-up.]

ShazamSF:  @[Mike] I stopped b/c of the use of “a women.”

ShazamSF:  @[Mike] And you’re not the only person I’ve seen make the same mistake, which is why I tweeted wide.

Suzanne,

I will never say I have perfect typing skills, and I guess I will now proofread any other correspondence with you. Yes, I am very educated with two degrees in Business Administration and Finance. My mind often is forming words way ahead of my fingers and I do suffer from typing dyslexia in which you may find a few words that I routinely mistype and I really have to focus on not having to do such typos. I also do not make my living typing and writing stories and do not have an editor either. Now I hope you decide to read further, and don’t judge someone so fast as I am not judging you for this reply.

I tried to give you a little insight and am kind of offended that you stopped because of one word. I would hate to have to go through all your blogs and point out any errors. They do happen.

__________________________________________________

Oh, it gets better, trust me.

I swear.  True story.

[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.

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.

Funny-Tattoos-TheTruthHurts

Friend of Random Rim Jobs, Ryan, wrote this lovely tidbit for me.  You can find out more about him:  http://ryansporn.tumblr.com/.

_______________________________________

Here is the story of my first homosexual experience. It also serves as a bit of a lesson that lying is bad, even Online.

I had posted an ad on Craig’s List Casual Encounters that was totally honest.  It said I had just gotten divorced, was bi-curious, and interested in meeting a guy who would let me suck him.  I wanted to start with that experience and then see how things went from there.  My thinking was that guys like blow jobs and are generally selfish, so it would be a great way to start.

I started trading e-mails with a few guys, most of them of course were sort of crude jerks (they were guys after all) but I remember one guy seemed nice and he was actually pretty close to me (geographically), so I figured it would be good.  He said he also was not very experienced with other guys and that he would be fine if we started with just a brief oral encounter for the first time.  As we chatted back and forth about stuff he also sent me a picture (he claimed it was him and his nephew, a little kid of about 4, which was freaky).

What he didn’t realize was that he had responded to another, earlier, similar ad I had posted.  His response to my prior ad included the same e-mail content and everything, even the same cock picture, but that time he’d included a face pic, which didn’t match what he’d just sent me with the “nephew.”  The cock was consistent and it did look nice and it was difficult to tell the size in the close-up picture; he told me it was 7″ and thick.  (This is a whole other issue about cock size–so many guys are obsessed with it, but I’ve noticed most girls really don’t seem to give a shit.  I’ve measured my own, 6″, which seems less than what guys seem to think is good, but no woman has ever complained, even some who were brutally honest about other issues.)

So things were obviously a little weird with this guy.  He seemed nice, but these little odd things and inconsistencies were there.  Anyway I decided to meet up with him.  He said he had a girlfriend who didn’t know anything he was doing, and for obvious reasons I didn’t want to host him, so we agreed to meet in his Suburban in a parking lot of an vacant store.  I also told him I was a little short on time, planning to have an out in case things were odd.

Ends up that was a good plan.  When I got there he was totally like the picture with his nephew, so that was at least good, I would be REALLY worried about a guy who sent out such an odd pic that wasn’t even really of him.

He had just wanted to pretty much get down to business, which I figured would be ok for my first time.  So I got in his surprisingly spacious Suburban.  He led me as I took a hold of his sweats and pushed them down to reveal …

NOT THE SAME FUCKING COCK!

I mean seriously, WHAT THE FUCK?!  Twice he sent me a picture of some other dude’s cock.  On top of that he was small–shorter and a bit thinner than myself and I’d never call my cock thick.  I wouldn’t have minded his size, except he’d told me differently and therefore he’d lied, again.  What I don’t get is what he was thinking when he told me.  I mean did he think I wouldn’t notice he was like half as big as he’d said he was?  I still don’t get it.

To this day I don’t know why I didn’t just get the fuck out of Dodge right then; maybe because I’ve never really been that great at saying no to people.  Anyway, I proceeded to suck him off and actually despite all the crap involved with the experience I did really like it.

He was a little rough with me which I didn’t like, mostly just because it was him doing it.  He came pretty quickly, and when he did he pulled out and shot into my mouth as he stroked himself, which was a bit disappointing; I had wanted to feel him pulse inside my mouth.

As he was getting his pants on he started talking about how much he’d like to see my ass and asked if I had any panties I could wear for him and if I’d ever be interested in perhaps giving a try to bottoming.  I was really noncommittal to everything and made sure to remind him that I was in a rush and had to be going (thank God I had thought to mention that earlier).  As he drove away I was really happy I’d gotten there early and parked a little way away near some other cars so he couldn’t tell which car was mine.

Since then I’ve gotten some e-mails from him.  He seemed pretty desperate at first, but as I continue to not respond he seems to have gotten the hint.  I see his Suburban driving in the neighborhood every now and then and I can’t help but think to myself, “What a stupid little shit!” every time I see it.  The irony is if he’d just been honest with me we most likely could have had some great repeat fun together.  The location was great and I was pretty inexperienced with guys and would have likely just stayed with one I knew already.  But he fucked it all up be being stupid enough to lie to me.  I really just don’t see the point.

So, that was my first homosexual experience and it was when I knew I was bi for sure; when even an idiot like that was enjoyable to suck off I knew I must actually like sucking cocks a lot.

That chick whose holes you like pounding has feelings.  You’re not forced into those stupid, “What are you thinking?” conversations that girlfriends tend to like, but that doesn’t give you license to be a callous ass to that lovely slut you’re banging.

  • If her pussy is unappetizing, offer to take a shower with her.  Don’t tell her she’s got a stanky snatch; no one wants to hear that.  If, after said shower, things are still not appealing to you, and if you like her enough to want to continue having fun with her, suggest, very nicely that she may have a medical condition and that she should see a doctor.  As the owner of a pussy it is her job to keep it up.  It is possible that the smell and/or taste of her honey pot simply does not appeal to you, so make any doctor-visiting suggestions with her feelings, and individual chemistry, in mind.
  • Introduce any kind of power play slowly.  D/s play can bring out pent-up emotions in some so proceed with caution.  Love having a dirty slut on her knees while you fuck her throat?  (Just got the nicest tingle in my pussy typing that!)  Try placing your hand, gently at first, on her head while she sucks your cock and see how she reacts, and then go from there.  Grab her wrists and hold her down while pounding away at her pussy and see how she likes it.  Want her to grind her cunt into your face, you dirty little boy?  Lay back and ask to please service her slit–if she can’t figure out how to straddle your face then it’s probably not her thing.  This is where being able to talk to each other can only make your sex better.
  • Treat any embarrassing accidents as such.  Sometimes a laugh is proper.  Sometimes just pretending it didn’t happen is the right thing to do.  After appropriate action–showering is often due–it is polite to apologize if it was your body that didn’t cooperate, or to make clear that it’s not a big deal if you were the recipient of an unexpected “gift.”  No one intends to fart while fucking (ignore) or to shit on his/her partner during a particularly intense session (shower and apologize).  And realize that an unintentional queef (laugh) just means y’all are have a rigorous session of fun.

More to come ….

I swear.  True story.

Mr. Zip had placed an ad in CL looking for women who wanted to participate in a threesome with him and me.  Mr. Zip has had MANY successful encounters based on his well-written CL posts.  Mr. Zip’s ads are longer than most, and make clear that he wants not only a sexy, kinky woman, but one who can write and carry on an intelligent conversation.

When he places an ad with me in mind for a threesome, I let him do all the hard work of sorting through the responses.  I trust his judgment and know that he knows how to find a woman with whom we will both have fun.  However, I don’t show up to the party with no idea of who will be there.

Mr. Zip culls through the men, the idiots, the couples, the too old, the too young, and forwards me the approved emails with photos.  Mr. Zip is always enthusiastic about potential encounters and usually writes something gushing about a the lady along with her forwarded email.

Mr. Zip was particularly keen on a young lady of only 21 years, and not only because she was a young lady of only 21 years, though sometimes that is enough.  In our case, however, we didn’t need to settle for just young, soft, flesh.  Sarah (sounds nice, doesn’t it?) was a smart girl who was also kinky.

Sarah was a physics major at UC Davis so she was no dummy.  She was engaged to be married but wanted to do some exploring before she settled down.  She was interested in threesomes, D/s, etc., and was doing the difficult work of getting all her experiences in before she was to marry.  (I do not subscribe to this apparently common idea that people can get things out of their systems before settling down.  It simply doesn’t work.)

Sarah didn’t want to engage in any of her sexual adventures close to school for fear that word would get back to her fiancé that she was a dirty girl, which she was.  Also, Davis, California, doesn’t have much in the way of opportunities for threesomes beyond the drunken frat party.

The three of us decided to get together at Mr. Zip’s house on a week night.  One of the major impediments to threesomes is having to juggle three schedules; we lucked out that all of us were available relatively soon after Sarah initially responded to Mr. Zip’s ad.  Sarah had to drive a little more than an hour to get to San Francisco from Davis, but was willing to do so for the opportunity to have fun with the two of us.

Mr. Zip and I were relaxing at his house waiting for Sarah.  I had some wine while we waited (Mr. Zip isn’t much of a drinker).  Sarah text messaged Mr. Zip several times to tell us she was stuck in traffic.  And stuck she was.  There was some sort of accident that caused a Sarah’s trip to take twice as long as it should have.

When she finally arrived, Sarah was upset about the traffic and apologetic that she’d taken so long.  Mr. Zip and I were fine, just sorry she was so frazzled by the traffic.  Mr. Zip gave Sarah some wine while she settled in.

She told us about the first time she’d had sex:  it was a threesome with a man and another woman.  They were also significantly older than she.  Mr. Zip and I certainly could see the pattern; I was in my mid-30s, and Mr. Zip in his mid-40s.

Sarah was quite the drinker; she was keeping up with me.  The three of us were getting to know each other, but mostly we wanted to know her.  She said she found her soul mate, her fiancé, in the physics department and knew he was the one because they were both studying the same obscure specialty within the field.

Sarah and I started kissing each other.  Mr. Zip was around but he could tell that Sarah felt more comfortable with me than him at the time.  Eventually we went into the bedroom where the three of us began exploring each others’ bodies.  Sarah was concerned that her breasts were to high when compared to mine.  I didn’t take it as an insult, but I did explain that she needn’t worry, because with another decade of gravity her breasts would likely be lower on her chest too.  Sarah’s body was soft yet firm, like 21-year-old flesh should be.

We were still drinking wine and Sarah continued to keep pace with me … until she didn’t.  Without warning, Sarah ran to Mr. Zip’s bathroom, where she puked in his sink.  Mr. Zip and I talked to her through the bathroom door.  She said she’d be ok.  We brought her some water.  Eventually she emerged from the bathroom and went back to the living room to rest on the couch.  But not for long, because she vomited on the couch.  She darted back into the bathroom, where she was again sick.

Mr. Zip was cleaning Sarah’s barf off his couch when Sarah finally came out of the bathroom.  She and I sat on Mr. Zip’s bed.  Sarah was crying.  Through the blubbering and tears she told me that she was extremely embarrassed, but she had clogged the bathroom sink with her puke.  I assured her that it would be no problem to take care of and went to the bathroom to assess the damage.

The sink was up to the safety drainage hole in vomitus-laden water.  I fiddled with the plunger but nothing happened.  So I reached into the sink in an attempt to pull the drain stop out.  I could not.  Nothing I did helped the sink drain, but I was in vomit up to mid-forearm.  Sexy!  I told Mr. Zip that his sink was clogged and that there was nothing I knew to do (I’m not a fucking plumber.) and then went to the kitchen sink to thoroughly wash my hand and arm.

Sarah was still in Mr. Zip’s bedroom, crying.  She sputtered that she wasn’t a drinker but that she was trying to calm down when she guzzled the wine.  (I really wish she had told us that before she up-chucked everywhere.)  I sat next to her on the bed and told her it was no big deal, that we were all nervous.  She kept apologizing to me and saying she wanted to make it a good experience for me.  I made  it clear that I wasn’t the one who was inexperienced and that everything was fine.  I recall her resting her head on my breast and me stroking her hair.  I felt both maternal and turned on; it felt wrong and so right.  I soothed her until she was no longer crying.

She looked  up at me with tear stains on her cheeks and looked so pretty.  Mr. Zip and I weren’t sure if Sarah was well, but she assured us that she was feeling much better.  We proceeded to have our threesome.

At one point I was on my back and she was straddling me.  Mr. Zip was standing at the foot of the bed between our legs.  I reached down to play with her pussy so he could see the nice view.  Then, while we were still in that position, Mr. Zip fucked me.  It was an interesting feeling to have the person fucking me not the person on top of me.

Sarah was enthralled when she watched Mr. Zip fist me.

We had a lot of fun, but the traffic and the puking had taken up a lot of time.  It was 5am and I needed to get home to my animals.  Mr. Zip gave me a ride home.

Mr. Zip told me that when he got back to his house Sarah was asleep in his bed.  He, too, was exhausted.  After they napped Mr. Zip was surprised to find that Sarah was interested in exploring more of her naughty side with him alone.  The night before she had seemed focused on me; they hadn’t had much interaction at all, and certainly hadn’t fucked.  But when it was just the two of them she asked him to spank her plump bottom.  He gladly obliged, and then he fucked her.

Sarah and Mr. Zip stayed in email contact for some time.  She told him that she drove to San Jose (an even further drive for her) to have another threesome with a MW couple, and that she wanted to see us again.  Scheduling often gets in the way of threesomes, and a second encounter wasn’t to be.

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.

Patrick is not his real name.  We first became acquainted via Craig’s List.  There were some nights I was horny but didn’t want to commit to having a guy over so I’d troll CL for guys who wanted to chat Online.  I tend to look at only the local CL ads–Patrick lived in Western Addition.

Since I don’t think names are all that important, I dubbed him Patrick.  He called me Umbrage, based on my response to his CL ad.  I think he claimed whomever responded wouldn’t be witty enough to keep up with him, so I responded that I took umbrage with his assumption.

We chatted via Yahoo! Instant Messenger several times.  We eventually began having phone sex.  On the phone he was very good at using a certain tone of voice that just put me in a certain head space, and we had a lot of fun.

One night we were talking on the phone and we were both very horny.  I suggested he just come over and fuck me already.  There was a lot of back and forth; I told him my Seattle Guy story.  We were both nervous that despite how hot we were for each other, we were really hot for our respective ideas of each other.

He came over.  We kissed, I think I sucked his dick.  Then we … nothing.  He clearly was not feeling it.  As he had been horny as hell when he arrived, I had to assume it was me.

No one likes to be rejected, for sure, but I would rather someone be honest with me than to pull the lame excuse of just being too tired, which was his explanation for no longer being turned on.  I’ve been pretty fucking tired in my day and that has never taken over my desire to have a new hot, hard cock pounding away at my cunt.

Patrick fell asleep.  I hadn’t invited him to stay; he hadn’t asked.  Not cool.  I had trouble sleeping with this stranger in my bed.  And I certainly wasn’t exhausted from hours of wild sex, so I just “slept” all night.

He left in the morning, but certainly not quickly enough.  I have no idea what I did wrong, other than not being his fantasy image of me.  He, on the other hand, did something wrong by not simply leaving when he realized he wasn’t attracted to me.

We continued to chat occasionally, but of course never to the level we had before the visit.  Despite my repeated requests for an explanation for his shitty behavior, the most he told me was that he thought spending the night would make things less awkward.  Wrong.

I am now firm about whether a person can spend the night thanks to Patrick.

I swear.  True story.