[Get caught up:  Part 2.]

[Mike] @ShazamSF are we conversing anymore? Thanks for letting me know email went through, but I am befuddled

*****

From: S M <shazamsf@sbcglobal.net>
To: [Mike]
Sent: Saturday, June 27, 2009 10:52:48 PM
Subject: Re: Its nice to say hello

You are befuddled?  Well, I am pretty annoyed at your presumptuousness.  I like having sex so you assume I’d want a STRANGER to fly me to Florida and take me to a nudist resort, but not until after he’s fucked me in a bathroom after a crude display in a bar, and you get offended that I want to be compensated for my time?!
*****

From: S M <shazamsf@sbcglobal.net>
To: [Mike]
Sent: Saturday, June 27, 2009 10:55:48 PM
Subject: Re: Its nice to say hello
You’re not about hiring escorts?  I’m not about going to Florida with people I don’t know, who claim dyslexia causes them typing and grammar problems, and whom assume I’d want to fuck them and go to nudist resorts with them.
*****

From: S M <shazamsf@sbcglobal.net>
To: [Mike]
Sent: Saturday, June 27, 2009 10:56:23 PM
Subject: Re: Its nice to say hello
Unless, of course, it is worth my time.  Time being a commodity.
*****

ShazamSF:  @[Mike] You’ve been befuddled for hours. Including through two email responses. Hmmm.

*****

P5171870-EDITWow, screeching to a Halt! I feel like I was led into an ambush and set up to fail miserably. I am sorry I misread your lead. All I did was offer up a fantasy/real scenario that seem to be welcomed when asking me to be blunt or not. I usually do not get so elaborate, but I have been reading your blogs and your twitters for a while now and Suzanne, you really put it out there, and in stories you DO meet up and place ads for “strangers” to come over and you fantasize while walking with them or while walking the dog. I am sure, you are saying to yourself, lets watch how fast Mike will back peddle his self out of this now that I called him on it. I seem to be in a dammed if I do or a damned if I don’t situation. We are adults, both sexually assured of ourselves, and I am not going to play mind games with you that I won’t win because I do not know your “rules”. Did I think tomorrow I would be booking you on a trip here? NO! If you recall in email #1, I offered my phone number to a complete STRANGER, and to quote, “I’d 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 feel from email one I have been open and honest. I will agree the Scenario I wrote about is just a fantasy/scenario I worked up for you to go along with what I have read from you in the past. I could quote many a twit or even a blog or two, but I know you’d recall what you write more than I can. To quote again “I certainly enjoy a WOMAN who is open and honest with her sexual awareness and her wants and needs. I hate fucking games back and forth and being coy and tentative so as not to accidentally offend.These few emails seem to be some sort of test, and hey I have been out of school for many years having graduating college and I don’t enjoy nor want totake any more. Tonight has sure been one for the annals of the phsycology of people.Not just you, but a long time friend as well. I’m pretty tired of trying to get a read onpeople. I felt after 26 years in business and hiring and firing and training and working with,I had some grasp on it, but I am about to just say fuck it, I won’t even put out an effort.I do have a something I refer to as a typing dyslexia of sorts because I have not heard another term for it. I get in a groove and can write and write and been told I should consider writing a novel. There are some words I type that I routinely will mix up the order of the letters or put a space in the middle of a word when of course I realize it is not correct. If I don’t bother to proof read over and over, they would be all over an email or a story. Why you would doubt me on this is beyond me, but I have tried to take my time since it really seems to be a big deal to you. I personally would not even let it be an issue, why add more crap to your life.I leave this ball in your court and do whatever you wish. I thought you would be a fascinating and never boring lady that I would enjoy spending time with, and I still do, but like I said, if this is what you enjoy, the back and forth crap, then go ahead and enjoy yourself, I will sit around and catch it from the sideline.Your 3 emails were not in my email box, prior to me leaving for a couple of hours and thus was the reason I asked you about it. Plus when you sent me the one email earlier showing me you did receive my phone email, you did not go into any discusiion of what you thought. Maybe I should have put my seatbelt on for it.

With interest (call me crazy and intrigued)
Mike

PS: in reading tonight’s diary,
6/27/2009

12/17/89: A Diary Entry (Part 1)

I did catch a few typo’s but I still enjoyed the story.
I will “assume”, you are “transcribing” your actual diary, mispellings and all.
To Quote you “I would welcome anyone telling me I’ve fucked something up in my blog”

Maybe I’m just being sentimental but these three *peple

more as a *unti–the three of them

I hope Amy can’t *stope

Erica told me she was *got but I

And her body’s got a good *shame–

Flat, smooth, white, *hairlss

Lisa has big boobs but you’d be afraid of *mothering.

I hope this makes up for my mispelling of WOMAN.

*****

[Mike] @ShazamSf Hi, hope U R having a great day. Its a perfect Florida day & being here @ the Nudist resort, felt so good on the body. take care

*****

From: S M <shazamsf@sbcglobal.net>
To: [Mike]
Sent: Saturday, June 28, 2009 6:37:48 PM
Subject: Re: Its nice to say hello
Yes, I have been known to fuck “strangers” and fantasize a lot.  However, I have never fantasized that a gentleman 13 years my senior fly me to Florida and take me to both a nudist resort and swingers club to which he carries membership cards.  And I certainly have never fantasized a radio station “superfan” (whatever that is) fuck me in a public restroom after I’ve worn clothes in which I would not be caught dead and flashed an entire bar my pussy. Finally, all my fantasies that begin with written communication do so with proper spelling, grammar, and punctuation (beyond the occasional typo).

I did want you to be blunt, but not as a trap, as I had no clue what you’d say.  I asked what you had in mind for my trip to Florida so I could understand what you expected of me.  You expected me to happily fuck you, and possibly others.  Fine, I would expect to be compensated for the time I’m not otherwise working.  I don’t think either of our expectations was unreasonable.

And thank you for the corrections!

Btw, I had more typos than the ones you pointed out.

[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.

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.

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.

This was a response to an ad I placed on Craig’s List.  I don’t recall the content of the post that garnered this response, but I get the feeling that the content of the post didn’t matter to this guy.

Masturbate for me. Both hands. Both holes. Taste. Mourn loudly. Pee and drink. Force yourself to orgasm. Repeat 3 times.

Amazingly enough, we never scheduled a meeting.

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.

I was walking Isis in Buena Vista Park one day when I came across something that assured that no matter what else happened, that day would be a good one.

The park is basically a wooded hill.  There a paved road to the top of the hill, and there are several dirt trials traversing up and down the hill on all sides.

Isis

Isis

Because it’s a big wooded hill, Buena Vista Park is not a good picnic park.  There are some benches strategically located to take in the view, but Isis and I treat it as an urban forest and “hike” though it.  It is well known for its view, and notorious as a cruising park for local gentlemen wanting to enjoy fresh air … on their dicks.

While hiking on one of the dirt trials I saw a condom wrapper.  Hmm, funny.  Then I saw, ever so gingerly draped over a small branch, a used condom.  Even funnier.  I should have continued the walk.  But I was interested.

I was interested like some people are thrilled to see car crashes.  I hate auto accidents–if I see a collision, or go by the aftermath of a crash, I actually look the other way.  I don’t need to see a mangled body, thankyouverymuch.  I never saw “Two Girls, One Cup” and I never will.  That video with the jar and the guy’s bleeding ass?  Won’t see it.

But this time I couldn’t tear my eyes away.  I looked at the used condom closer.  I wanted to see if it had come in it.  I don’t know why I wanted to see, but I did.  It did not have come in it.  It did, however, have shit on it.  YES!  I know, I’m a sick fuck, but that is damn hilarious.

I tried to take photos, but my phone has a crap camera.  And it’s probably for the best that the photos didn’t come out, because really, I may be the only person on earth who actually wants to see something like that.  People would think I’m into scat or something.  I am not.  The few times shit (yeah, more than once–don’t judge) has been involved in my sex life were messy and embarrassing accidents, NOT turn-ons.

A shitty used condom made my day.

I swear.  True story.