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.

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.

Sometimes I respond to Craig’s List ads just because I’m bored.  I like giving people shit.  I look in the Casual Encounters or Strictly Platonic sections with the intent to hook up or find a friend, respectively, but sometimes I can’t resist fucking with people.
This character, Pop Angel (PA), had posted a rant about how much San Francisco sucks, not in the Rants and Raves section, but in either CE or SP.  I had to respond.  This is obviously a case of two people who should have had something, anything, better to do.  Any spelling, grammar, punctuation, etc., errors are the asswipe’s, not mine.
There’s a chance you’re disillusioned with San Francisco because you judge people based on looks and clothing before you’ve talked to them.  You may also have trouble communicating with people since it’s obvious you have some spelling, grammar, punctuation, and capitalization issues.

If you hate it here so much, why not move?  Maybe New York City, which you hold up as the epitome of cities, would better suit you.


I don’t believe I’m delusioned one bit dear misguided fool.  The reason why everything comes across as superficial is because it has been projected to me that way.   I can only let someone show me how he or she wants to be perceived.  And it was shown to me that a man or a woman is truely judged according to the labels they wear and whatever status symbol applies in San Francisco.  Words should guide actions, but actions have proved otherwise and your words are misleading & dishonest.I have family and professional reasons for being in San Francisco.  It’s definately not the caliber of NYC, Chicago or even Boston.

SF is not a “world class city”.  It has to be a city first, and a city that caters to people.  SF is a scene, nothing more.  It’s a background, there’s not much going on.  The ball games at AT&T Battery park is the only time I see anyone in the Bay Area share in any kind of cheer, and that’s a stretch.

And is it any deal that I mistype something if I’m speaking to others?

A friend from NY can rap off a funny story inspired by Spitzer, another gal from Boston and I can crack jokes about birds, a gawky kid from Ohio can become a stud in his own right because he has something one might call “social skills” and can hold your attention longer than five minutes, someone from India and I can rap about the currencies in Asia

Get a Bay Arean — and from grown ups all you hear is, “I dress my kids in Zac Posen” (“I have no reason for living”), “…Marc Jacobs” (“I’m needy”), “my kids go to school at…(“I’m shopping at Ross and I live vicariously through my child for status quo”),
“I live in Blackrock” (“I need approval”), “I have a trust fund” (I say that I don’t trust you), and “I go to Tahoe on the weekends” (it really means, “I’m insecure enough to throw away my equity loan because I have to buy my friends”).   You can smell the insecurity if you walk into a shop to get a pair of socks by some idiot hipster demi-god complex because they work in retail, and you can smell the insecurity when any guy will snub an AVERAGE girl because he thinks average girls have a princess complex.  Again, insecure and he’s probably right.   When you hear an asian girl spout out about her trophy “husband”, again… she needs approval.   The self loathing/snobby self loathing boredom is sucking this city dry!

I refused to pay full price on anything I saw in Cow hollow today because I pity you fools.  It’s a recession, and EVERYBODY “has to have a pashmina”.  EVERYBODY IN SF FROM SAN FRANCISCO IS THAT PRETENTIOUS.  There’s more material in my thong than there is in a pashmina.  We’re in a recession.  Everybody and their grannies has to spend $50.00 for each pashmina.  They’re $75.00 EACH if you walk into a trendy European store in San Francisco.  My beautiful friends from Europe would not dare spend a fifth of that money in Euros on a stupid piece of junk, I mean pashmina.   But hey, things like that do happen when people are allowed to like themselves.   And speaking of recessions, why is a tanktop selling for over $100, a loaf of bread for $4.00 and gas for $4.00/gallon?  Is everyone here that greedy?   Even though I can afford a $100.00 for a stupid shirt, why do i want to pay $100 for it?  They’re all $100+.   I wouldn’t even expense that kind of cost on a company account.

Now we’re getting to the juice.  While taking the Muni home, I noticed a black guy getting off.  He is dressed down and his arm is in a sling.  He stumbles to get off.  People were rather snooty around him.  Mind you, we are on the Muni.  Not a limo.  Then I noticed a bracelet, the poor guy just got out of a hospital and had to take himself home.   I mean, here is someone who is having a very real experience and because he may in some way distracted a few “liberal” prudes from their trashy novels, I’m sorry it is a little obnoxious.   And no, I don’t live in or around the Marina but apparently “the Marina” is the way to be.

I was in a conversation between a pair of bay area natives.  They were having about the dryest conversation about rock climbing.  Every other word that they shared about this exciting activity was poised and calculated.  Extracurriculars are all work and no play.  I’m not going to last long here.

It’s a shame.  Why waste my pity on a sick man who found himself in the company of unfortunate, unfriendly hags?  I’ll pity you and the natives of San Francisco instead.


Seems as though there’s a certain kind of San Franciscan you don’t like.  Not everyone who lives in this city, and I think you want this to include you, is like that.  You’re judging a whole population based on your not-too-scientific viewing of a portion of the whole.

Yes, I do believe spelling, punctuation, etc., are important when communicating in the written word. Words mean something and to spell a word incorrectly alters the meaning.  A comma can make or break a sentence.  When communicating via spoken word of course spelling and punctuation mean less, but I’d still have to ask for clarification if you said the word “pacific” instead of “specific,” for example.

You infantilize women in general and Asian women in particular by calling them “girls.”  Pashminas were in high demand roughly five years ago so I don’t know where the hell you’re shopping.  Finally, you must have a shit-ton of time on your hands for you to use it in such an unproductive manner.  Maybe some hobbies?  Might I suggest jogging?  San Francisco is a small city and it really is nice to see the various neighborhoods with fresh eyes.  Try wearing headphones so you don’t have to actually interact with the locals.


You’d be suprised but I do jog quite a bit.  I can get a lot done before most people get up.I’m basing my experience on reality.  You can’t get more scientific than that!  By the way, I see pashminas being sold everywhere.  I see them being worn everywhere.  I refuse to get one.  As I refuse to get an Ipod. I’ve explored newer neighborhoods and I’m running out.  Sorry I don’t think it should be necessary to venture into the Tenderloin or the Mission to see different than the enforced status quo of some homogenous kind.

And sorry if I offended you by “infantizing” women.  I fit exactly into that category.  To me, a true woman have a sense of character and self; regardless of her capabilities to spell.  The main group seems quite obsessed with their vanity with either looks or intellect (if that).

Sorry if that report on reality doesn’t fit into your delusions of utopia that you’re making San Francisco out to be.  To me, utopia is and of it’s people.  I find it to be a hollow, vacant and empty place.



Wow!  You are judgmental and nutty.

Why should it be necessary for you to avoid the more interesting neighborhoods and then complain that the city isn’t interesting?


If you think gutter toilets are interesting, then you might want to realize that not everyone in the real world thinks like you.  YOU are judgemental and nutty for even insinuating people be intrigued when it’s normal to find it offensive.  Sorry, sometimes we have weak stomachs.  And even if we have strong stomachs as I sometimes do, these types of things offend me as well.It’s not something we can help.

You’re judging someone with a normal reaction and you’re calling me judgemental.  Wow, you’re not only judgemental but funny!

You don’t think it’s judgmental to say it’s “normal” to find some things offensive?  Ever hear of cultural relativism?  You’ve got it, bad.  “Normal” is based on your upbringing, environment, etc.  You think everyone in the world thinks the same things are “normal”?  If so, you should maybe do some traveling.  Maybe leave San Francisco forever?


I’m still not sure if PA is a man or a woman.  I don’t really care.  I would love to run into this shithead in a bar, though I suspect we’d never be in the same place at the same time.  I LOVE San Francisco and while I appreciate some constructive criticism, PA’s bullshit hardly qualifies.  Ah, Craig’s List, how I love thee.  Thank you for connecting me to such a diverse class of folk.

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.

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.



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.

I want to go into Humphrey Slocombe and taste some ice cream.  They have these tiny metal tasting spoons and they’ll spend as much time with you as you want, and let you taste as many flavors as you’d like.  They’re so nice and friendly.  They must realize that a lot of people who go there are stoned out of their gourds.

I want to go there and taste a bunch of ice creams.  It won’t be busy at all so I won’t feel guilty about tasting every flavor and savoring each one for a LONG time.  Yum.  I’ll take a tiny spoonful into my mouth and slide it off the spoon.  Then I’ll push each tiny spoonful of ice cream to the roof of my mouth and let the bit of ice cream swim around my mouth, between my teeth, to all of my taste buds.  It’s all so fucking creamy.  I can smell it as I taste it, as if the smell is going to the backsides of my sinuses.  It’s so fucking good.

Then I’m on the counter.  I’m face down right at the register.  The register is going through me (this is a fantasy; anything can happen) but the employees can still work.  It’s almost as if I’m an enigma. But the customers can touch me because in order to get to the register they must walk between my legs.  My legs are wide open, my feet are bare.

In order to make any purchases people must walk between my legs.  I’m spread wide so each customer must snuggle up to my crotch in order to hand over cash to get his yummy, yummy ice cream.  Some slide their licked-clean tiny metal spoons into my ass.  In and out … in and out … in and out.  So slow, so nice.  And cold.  Some people bend down and lick as they’re sliding their tiny spoons into and out of my asshole.

Some people attend to my ass and slide fingers into my pussy as well.  Several people come into the shop and take it as normal that when making their purchases they play with my ass and my pussy.  My ass is always involved.  Eventually, I get wet enough that each customer is able to slowly and easily slip his entire hand into me.  The women fist me too.  Nice and rhythmic and easy.  In and out.  I’m so wet.  It feels especially good when someone’s fisting me and caressing my sphincter with her tongue simultaneously.

The shop starts to get busy.  No one can spend nearly enough time slowly sliding his fingers into my pussy and my ass; there’s a line forming.  The busier it gets in the shop the faster each person must thrust her hand into me.  Pretty soon, every time the register drawer opens there’s a fist punching my pussy.  Each time.  Faster and faster.  The shop is doing great business, as is my pussy.

Alternatively, I’m on my knees in front of the counter so I must suck and lick everything that’s put to my face.  Cocks are shoved down my throat.  Pussies are ground onto my face.  No matter what, all the store’s patrons can do whatever they want to me.  I’m a nasty, slutty tool for each person to use as s/he wants–my mouth, my cunt, my ass are all to be objectified, and heavily.

Harder and harder, faster and faster.  EVERYONE puts his hand in me.  They take turns thrusting into my wet, loose cunt.  Each time I grunt.  I can take it.  I can take more.  Until finally, I come.  I scream.  S-C-R-E-A-M out as I come.  Everyone looks up from eating their ice cream, but in a very nonchalant way.  “Yeah, that chick on the counter came because we were all treating her pussy like the sloppy cunt it is, but that’s so not a big deal.”

But then business slows down.  My pussy is spent, the store closes.  I sit on the floor naked and eat salt and pepper ice cream.  My legs are long and lean (it’s a fantasy, dammit) and stretched out before me.

I swear.  True story (of my fantasy).

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.

My neighbors, Rose and Dieter, met in Germany.  Dieter is German, and consequently he and Rose often host German friends when they’re in town.  They had two German friends staying with them when I was invited out to lunch with them at Papalote. Yum.

I was the only person at the table who did not speak German.  Everyone spoke English very well, but understandably conversation would slip into the comfort zone of three of the five people present (and a language one other of the five could understand and speak very well).  Which I loved.  I really do like listening to the rhythm of a language I can’t understand.  Because I don’t have the ability to listen to the content, I can listen to the cadence.  The sounds are less coherent communication and more music to my ears.  Even German–a language which has been accused of auditory assault–sounds lovely when articulated by a native speaker.

Later that day, I ventured to the Marina to attend my friend’s book signing.  She illustrated a children’s book, Freckleface Strawberry and the Dodgeball Bully.  Julianne Moore wrote the book so the signing was packed with people and their little brats.

I dipped out to a bar, where I met a British bloke.  I chatted him up, and got his business card with his home number on the back.  Apparently he’s the person without a cell phone.  I’m definitely going to call him, if for no other reason than he’ll take me out to eat–I’m a food nerd.

Then back to the book store, where the signing had thankfully ended.  Met my friend’s husband and kid, congratulated the friend on her book, and saw Julianne Moore.  I opted for silence over saying something supremely stupid, but did exchange smiles with Ms. Moore.  She is beautiful in person.  And shorter than I expected.

I do not go to the Marina often.  It is not my kind of neighborhood.  I like gritty; in San Francisco I’ve lived only in the Tenderloin and the Mission.  The Marina is too damn clean for me.  But mostly it’s the people who live there that don’t appeal to me.  I refer to the Marina as LA North.  I dig LA–loved living there when I did–but the pressure of having to put on the right outfit and full make-up just to go to the damn corner store for some fucking wine is too much silliness.  And that pressure comes from the people who shoot dirty looks when I go to the corner store in flip-flops and–shock–no mascara.

But, as I was already there, I thought I should take advantage of it.  Only it was a Tuesday, and not much was going on.  I went into another bar and sat amongst the five people already there.  As it was still early–and dead–the staff had little to do.  Watching bar staff reminds me of the old pool hall days.  The camaraderie of bar work simply can’t be equaled in an office.

Finally, the Marina was boring me, so I hopped on the first of two buses I needed to take me back to the dirty Mission.  I changed buses at Fillmore and Geary.  Actually, I saw a bar at Fillmore and Geary and dipped in for another drink.

The Boom Boom Room was deader than the Marina bar had been, but I wanted another drink, dammit.  I was finishing up my drink and about to leave when in walked a group of guys.  How convenient.

They were a group of soccer players, I think; drunk Shazam doesn’t listen too well.  Drunk Shazam did, however, realize that English was most definitely not their first language.

Two of the guys were chatting with me.  One of them spoke no English so the other acted as translator.  I got to hear them talk to each other in Spanish during the translation process.  And that’s when I decided I would be fucking these two men.

I told the one who could speak English, Pedro (sure, that works), that I wanted them both to come back to my place and fuck me.  I made it clear that our goal was to DP me so they had to be ok with seeing one another’s dicks, and with having them touch.  I was not about to have two hot, but uptight, guys to my place.  Pedro affirmed that they would happily fulfill my need to have my ass and my pussy fucked simultaneously.

We hopped in a cab, stopped at a liquor store–because more drinks were surely required, right?–and then went to my house.  They made drinks and smoked on my patio while I took Isis out.  Only my dog knows how much of a slut I am.

Spoiler alert:  I still have not experienced the glory I imagine is getting DP’d.  I will some day, dammit.  That night I was too fucking drunk.  While a bit of alcohol can be nice for eliminating those pesky inhibitions, too much and things just don’t work properly.

And because I was too wasted, I have only snippets of memory once the three of us were in my bedroom.  I do recall making it VERY clear that condoms would be required.  I have a huge supply thanks to San Francisco City Clinic and recall repeating, “Condoms” and, “You have a condom on, right?”  Not too sexy–the repeating, not the insistence on using protection.

We did attempt, a couple of times I think, our goal.  But it just wasn’t happening.  Even for a basic ass fuck I need to relax and breathe and mentally and physically open up.  This drunk idiot is not capable of that much thought.  This sober girl wants so badly to feel a cock in her pussy and her ass concurrently, and will definitely be making it happen, and soon.

All the while, Pedro and the other guy were talking to each other in Spanish.  I’ve lived in California all my life so I’m used to hearing Spanish, as spoken by both Mexicans and Chicanos.  The Ex speaks Spanish nicely.  These guys, however, were South American, so the lilt of their speech sounded new and exciting.  So fucking hot.  I love hearing a language I can’t understand, and I love being spoken about as if I’m not there.  I had both with Pedro and the other one.  It was in so many ways the perfect situation and I fucked it up by being too damn drunk.  Boo, me.

I think I fucked both of them.  I assume I sucked both of them–because I want all the cocks in my mouth–all of them.

Eventually, they took their leave and the next morning (Isis assures I get up early no matter what) the only evidence of their presence was the bottle of vodka and the massive quantity of condoms, and condom wrappers, on my bedroom floor.

I swear.  True story.

I was at a party chatting with the host when the host’s friend introduced himself to me.  Let’s call him Sheldon.  He was an attractive guy and very friendly.  The host told me that he and Sheldon were best friends and that Sheldon was a great guy.

It being a party, I was pretty much drunk, and had probably smoked some pot too, so it took a while for me to realize that I had met Sheldon before.  More than just met.  I had told the host the story of the night Sheldon and I became acquainted earlier that evening.  Only I hadn’t remembered Sheldon’s name (still don’t) so the host didn’t have a chance to waylay the awkwardness that inevitably ensued after the “introduction” at the party.

About a month before the party, I met Sheldon through Craig’s List.  After the email to-and-fro, Sheldon and I decided to meet at the Elbow Room on a Friday night.  I arrived first and amazingly was able to get seats at the bar.  Several men offered to buy me drinks (which is not usual so it still stands out for me).  I declined, thinking it would be rude to get a drink if I didn’t give conversation in return, and since my date was arriving any second, I wasn’t able to hold up my end of the bargain.

Sheldon showed up and we had a few drinks together.  He was cute and we had a good conversation.  Yay!  He went outside to smoke, and because it was a Friday night in a busy bar, the seat he left gave people opportunity to sidle up to the bar to order drinks.  A cute woman ordered for her group and while she was waiting for the drinks we chatted.  Sheldon came back to the bar and I introduced him to her and her friends.  She got her drinks and off they went.

Sheldon and I continued talking.  I told him I thought the woman was hot and gushed a bit.  That’s when things got weird.  He said something along the lines of me not being into him enough and got up and left.  Just left.  Abandoned me.  I was embarrassed, and confused.  We had just met, was I supposed to want to speak to only him for the rest of my life?  How into him did I need to be?  What could I have done to show my interest?

I finished my drink and walked toward my house.  I dipped into another bar for a drink.  The more I thought about the asshole the more pissed–the American and British versions–I became.  Who the fuck was he to make me feel like I had done something wrong?  And why hadn’t I gotten that hot chick’s number?

So, with more liquid courage in me, I marched right back to the Elbow Room.  I found the hot chick and got her number, dammit.  Just in time, too–the bar’s lights went up at last call.

I turned to leave and there was Sheldon.  Ug.  Maybe he felt bad for being such a dick, because he offered me a ride home.  By this time I was quite drunk and probably would not have made the walk home unscathed so I said yes.  On the way to his car we kissed.  I have no clue how that happened.  I would guess I told him he was an asshole for his behavior earlier in the night–so maybe kissing him was my way of saying he could make up for it by putting out.  Who the fuck knows how my mind works when I’m drunk?  Certainly not I.

As soon as we arrived at my place we took Isis out.  She is a very good girl and doesn’t need a leash so when she was doing her thing, I did mine.  My thing is NOT the same as Isis’s.  My thing that night was to get on my knees out on the corner after 2:00 am and suck Sheldon’s cock.

Apparently I wanted Sheldon to know that because he was an asshole to me he was missing out on great head.  And the only way to prove I suck cock very well was to, well, suck his cock very well.  Drunk girls really are stupid.

We went back to my apartment and went to the bedroom, where I continued to suck him off.  Then, without warning–in my drunk mind at least–he got up and ran out of my apartment.  No shit!  Twice in one night this guy takes off on me.  The latter time mid-blow job.  At least there was no one around the second time so I wasn’t embarrassed.

The party’s host laughed, at me, not with me.  Telling the story and seeing the guy had renewed my anger.  What a fucking asshole.  The party’s host wanted me to confirm that Sheldon had a big dick.  I did not recall it being anything all that special in size.  He was a big dick, but I didn’t notice that he had one.

Sheldon was at the party with a date.  I debated with the host whether I should confront Sheldon and out him as an asshole in front of his date and the rest of the folks who were unwittingly attending our reunion.  The host talked me down by making it clear that I would most definitely look like a twat and that Sheldon would look pretty smart for running away from a crazy bitch.  Excellent point.  I avoided Sheldon the rest of the night.

A few months later I saw Sheldon at another party with the same host.  I was no longer angry, and had no desire to make a scene, so I asked him why the fuck he ran out in the midst of getting sucked off.  Apparently, that night, because I was so drunk and so angry, I had retard strength.  I used said strength to squeeze Sheldon’s balls too hard.  He said he asked me repeatedly to ease up but I wasn’t listening, and his poor balls were being abused.  He also explained that the death grip I had on his balls must have been the reason the size of his dick didn’t stand out in my mind–he wasn’t fully hard.  Yeah, ok, whatever, dude.  You’re still an asshole.

I still wanted to know one thing though:  Except for the unintentional CBT, did I give a good blow job?  He assured me that yes, absolutely, I suck cock VERY well.  Thank you.

I swear. True story.