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


Hi Suzanne,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Til we talk,
Mike- Wag [surname]

[phone number]

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


Oh, it gets better, trust me.

I swear.  True story.

Oh god, oh gee.  Well, Erica came down.  DJ and I picked her up that afternoon.  Then we were just hanging out ’til the next day when my mom went to work.  I guess I was sort of “putting the moves on” her and we ended up kissing  in the bedroom.  Then I think it was going to end when she came from behind and began licking my neck, which made me melt.  So then we went over to Chris’s to do laundry and Erica and I were in the den watching tv under a blanket and I did stuff like rub my foot on the inside of her thigh, etc.  (I don’t exactly remember very well nine days later.)  She told me I was frustrating and a tease and all that shit that’s fun.  So I said, (yes, I remember exactly) “You could do something about it.”  And she said, “So could you.”  That sort of caught me off guard so I had to plan my next maneuver.  After a few moments of thought I leaned across the couch and kissed her like there was no tomorrow.  I can’t remember if it was that time or the next time that she asked me if I always get so excited.  Who knows what I said but I think I lied and said no.  Or maybe I told her yes.  I can’t remember.  So we just sat there watching tv with the blanket over us and our hands were making love.  They were sweaty and slick and rubbing all over each other and just by doing that I became hot and began to breathe heavily.  Then we looked at each other and pulled together in sheer passion.  Beautiful it was.  Then we had to go eat dinner in front of Chris and my mother and set up the train around the Christmas tree.  And though I knew I should have felt guilty, I didn’t.  So that night watching tv on the bed we “made out” (that sounds so juvenile).  She said stuff like, “Why did Robbie ever break up with you?” And she told me that I do get excited quite easily but that she liked it.  She finally, after much begging, bodily conniving, etc., entered me with her storng, long fingers.  I always feel, in the few moments beforehand that without something inside me I’d die.  But then at the right time, my life is saved.  So then there it was.  The next night over at my mother’s house Erica was giving me so much pleasure that I wanted to return the favor.  She declined, but asked for a back rub.  I gave her one with Kama Sutra oil.  That turns her on (w/scratching) as much as any clitoral rub could me.  And then we did it again (once before the back rub) and for some reason I wanted it harder and deeper so she kept ramming harder and trying to get deeper.  And oh god, it sure felt good.  So good that she had to motion for me to be quiet, and so good that I was actually saying, “Oh my god” with each expulsion of breath.  But when she finished she said something with “Jesus” in it along with a few naughty words.  I was hoping it was sometihng like I was so good she just couldn’t believe it but unfortunately she informed me that I was bleeding.  She had torn me up.  Friday night DJ spent the night because Mom and Chris went to a Patti La Belle concert.  Why two people who are quite capable of taking care of themselves need a chaperon is beyond me but I guess we did.  I was still bleeding but Erica didn’t know.  Earlier that day we had gone shopping at the Eagle Rock Plaza and I was in a bad mood because every time I sat down I was reminded of the great evening by pain.  And the blood.  We slept after some kissing but she was very tired.  Saturday to Melrose Ave. to check out sights, buy Christmas presents.  We were sitting, Erica reading, I was people watching.

This is what I was thinking of when I masturbated the other day.  I was able to come despite suffering from a cold and severe back pain.


I want my calves bound to my thighs so my legs are wide open.  I want to be on the edge of a bed or a table so a man with a nice huge cock can stand up and pound my pussy and my ass at his whim.  Or it could be a woman with a big dildo strapped into her harness; I’ve not had enough experience with women and strap-ons for this to be something that pops into my head unbidden, but the image is certainly not unwelcome.

I want his cock to slide into my ass.  Slow and easy, working its way up to fast and hard.  Then he should slow down again, as he slips his fingers into my pussy.  He’ll be using lots of lube so everything will slither into me without effort.

His cock will be in my ass as he slips one, then two, then three fingers into my pussy.  He’ll be slowly pushing his rod into and out of my ass while at the same time his fingers reach up and massage that special spot inside my cunt.

Then, I want his whole hand inside me and his cock in my ass; to be completely and utterly full.  And I can’t do a thing because I’m tied up all pretty.

I swear.  True (fantasy) story.

I just keep coming … up with good tips.  Having casual sex means there is NO expectation of monogamy so you must take the proper precautions.  Or don’t, and see what happens–it doesn’t matter to me, I’m not fucking you.  Oh, I am fucking some of you?  Well, thank you, gentlemen for being such good lays, and keep the pointers in mind, please.

  • Bring condoms.  This is especially important for you gentlemen who fall on the far ranges of the cock size scale; whether you require “snug fit” or XXL, bring the condoms that will stay in place until the job is done.  A proper slut will have her own supply, but isn’t it better to be sure the condoms you use don’t have the potential of making you a daddy?  Use your supply for fucking her pussy; use hers for fucking her ass.
  • Don’t even attempt to stick your dick in her without donning a condom.  Assuming neither of you has an STI is just fucking stupid (pun intended).  The exception to this is oral sex, but if she insists on a condom for cock-sucking, respect her wishes, don’t attempt to wheedle her into submission.  Even blow jobs can transmit STIs, the risk is just lower than for other avenues of penetration.
  • You are a sexually active adult–know what to do if the condom breaks, or if it feels like the burning of 1,000 suns when you take a piss a couple weeks after an encounter.  Be aware of the risks of various STIs, and be nice enough to let her know your test results should you find you’ve contracted something.  If you’re too much of a chickenshit to do that, try where you can have an anonymous email sent on your behalf.  DO NOT assume you got it from her.  Perhaps you gave it to her.  If you did get it from her, it’s not her fault–she didn’t set out to give it to you, and being a slut does not spontaneously generate any infection, sexual or otherwise.  If she is considerate enough to contact you after she’s been diagnosed with an STI do not try to make her feel worse than she already does–she’s definitely very sorry.  Also, as a sexually active adult it is your job to know where to get tested and what you need to do for treatment; she should not have to help you find your local clinic.

Believe it or not, more to come ….

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from “Correctional Officer, Part 1.”]

This was also during a time I was doing my best to be a faithful wife.  I invited the guys to my room with the intent of talk and mutual lamentation of the misery of the craptastic town.  The three guys got into my rental car and gave me directions.  We dropped off the original cute guy so he could get some pussy.  Then I was in the car with T and CO, only I had no clue of their names at the time, and hadn’t yet had a chance to give them nicknames.  We drove to T’s apartment so he could pick up his car, and beer.

I told them where my hotel was and drove there myself.  T and CO later told me they were afraid I’d have a thug in my room ready to roll them.  I naively often think only women have to worry about personal safety, so their worst-case scenario hadn’t occurred to me.  If it had, I would have done my best to reassure them that they were in no danger.  That night we hung out in my hotel room and talked about movies, and books, and how miserable their little corner of hell was.  CO told me he was a correctional officer at a local county jail, that he was married, and that he had a young son.

Actually, he didn’t tell me so much as I drew the information out of him.  His phone rang throughout the time the three of us were hanging out.  When I suggested he should attend to the caller he told me it was “just” his wife and that she’d be fine so long as he went home eventually.

As I was drunkish I definitely was cuddlier than usual.  I made it a point to touch CO as much as possible while enmeshed in a conversation about zombies.  He was not receptive at all.  Which was good considering T was in the room as well, and both CO and I were married, not to each other.

The three of us agreed to get together again the next night after I was done with work.  We went to a Japanese restaurant that CO assured me would be good.  I was doubtful that the town knew good sushi, but CO was right.  T, CO, and I had a great meal.  After the previous night’s discussion about movies and books, and the realization that he knew good food, I had developed a bit of a crush on CO.

He was big–6’4″, 220 lbs.–and awkward, and cute.  Nice full lips.  A sweet personality that belied his chosen profession.  I love having my preconceived notions shattered, and I love people who are walking contradictions.  This guy was a dork in every way but his job.

After sushi we went to the same bar where we had met.  Our pregnant bartender was working hard for the kid’s future Ivy League tuition.  I got VERY drunk.  I was so hung over the next day I had a very difficult time checking out of my hotel by noon.  I was not looking forward to the several-hour drive home.

I had gotten T’s phone number the night before and I called him to thank him for making my stay in Crapville just a little better and to tell him I’d be back the following week (my work was not yet complete).  It was obvious I was in shit shape so he offered his couch for me to sleep on until I felt well enough to drive.  I took him up on the offer–really I was capable of little actual function and was concerned that I wouldn’t make the drive.

More to come ….

I swear.  True story.

Many moons ago I was ShazamLA, Pasadena specifically.  I worked in a bar/pool hall/restaurant where I had the opportunity to meet many men (including the Ex).  I was a host so it was my job to greet the customers, play music (if I never hear “Hotel California” again, I’ll be fine), and take people to their pool tables to rack their balls (insert ball joke here).  Yes, I did rack the balls in such a way that my own rack did a bit of a dance.  Hey, my tits are nice and I liked getting tips–don’t judge me.


When I was at my station there was plenty of opportunity for guys to chat me up–I couldn’t go anywhere.  Sadly, the conversations were all very similar.  Because it was LA I was always asked what else I do, I think because they assumed I’d say I was an aspiring actress.  I was not.  I was attending junior college (I believe the same one that James Deen–swoon–also attended, albeit many years later.) and often studied during my down time at work.  The studying allowed for more questions, all lame. Sometimes I chatted just to entertain myself.  Horny drunk guys can used for entertainment purposes, then as now.

One guy I met was a cool rockabilly type.  Up to that point he was the only guy I’d dated/fucked who had more tattoos than me.  Not on purpose, that’s just the way it worked out.  Along with having a full sleeve, he also had a cool car (the make and model of which I have no damn clue), and greased hair.  Through our conversations I learned that both of his parents were deaf so he knew sign language, which is so interesting.  We got along very well.

He came over to my place and we watched a movie on my little 13″ Montgomery Ward tv (I still  have it, in my bedroom).  We started making out.  I’ll admit I was worried for my sheets because of his hair grease, but apparently he didn’t overdo it and the sheets were fine.  He was a VERY good kisser.  I can kiss for hours, and that’s not just something I say.  I really can kiss and kiss and kiss.

During make-out sessions there are, of course, opportunities to show off one’s hip-action skills.  A good dry humper is usually also a good fucker.  He was very good.  I was having a lovely time, though I did have to avoid running my fingers through his hair for fear I’d mess up the ‘do, and get all greasy.

Things progressed.  Back then I was much less sure of myself in general and much less comfortable with penises in particular.  My style was closed eyes and opened legs.  I feel quite bad for the guys I fucked back then.  Maybe I should offer them a repeat to protect my reputation ….

Anyway, we fucked.  I think.  He certainly acted like he was fucking me.  I, however, couldn’t feel a thing.  NOTHING.  Again, this was a while ago.  My pussy now can, and does, accommodate large objects, both flesh and toy.  My sex toy arsenal back then consisted of ONE rather average-sized dildo and, well, that was it. (Can there be an arsenal of one?)

Nonetheless, I simply could not feel his penis in my pussy.  He finished and left.  It was then that things began to make sense.  He had told me the last woman he’d fucked had simply faded away; that he had liked her and had wanted to see her again, but that she never called him after the sex.  Because there was no point in having sex with this guy more than once.  Back then I worried a lot about what others thought of me, so I was concerned about diplomatically cutting this guy loose.  I had no interest in pretending to feel that thing in me a second time.

I needed advice from my friends on how to deal with this guy.  I talked to my coworkers the next time I went in to work.  I told them that we’d had sex but I could not feel a thing.  They were incredulous–no penis is THAT small.  Yes, sadly, it was that small.  How small?  Trying to put it into perspective, I looked at objects around the bar and saw a roll of Life Savers Candy®.  “That size,” I said, pointing it out.  No joke.  Just as I was telling yet another coworker my–well, his–sad story, in he walked.

I was stuck at my work station and he went off to do what tiny-dicked guys do at bars.  Apparently, that is making out with the woman he’s not supposedly dating in front of the coworkers of the woman he is supposedly dating. A coworker was nice enough to report to me that he was out on the bar’s patio sucking face with someone, not me.

Wha?!  I was upset, but not that he was making out with someone else, because that was exactly what I needed to get out of the “relationship.”  But why did he have to make out with someone at my place of work, while I was on shift, and in front of my coworkers?  I looked like the fool, when the truth was he was packing a minuscule excuse for a penis.

So I played a song and dedicated it to him: the (unfortunately) edited version of “Short Dick Man”.  Never saw him again.

I swear.  True Story.

This would, of course, be better if I had the photo of the donkey dick, but it seems to have disappeared out of my email.  It would also be better if I had the Craig’s List ad that began this fun.  Next time I’ll think ahead.

The Craig’s List ad was listed under Casual Encounters m4w.  There was a photo of a HUGE penis.  The photo really did not look photoshopped, but I’m not well-versed in photo manipulation.  It certainly didn’t look professional–the background was a 70s-era desk and crappy carpeting.  The guy’s cock was larger than his arm in the photo.  The ad said the usual–he wants casual sex, will only reply to responses with photos, won’t pay for sex but will pay for meals, drinks, and drugs.  Neither the ad or its headline mentioned anything about having a big cock, which in the CL CE world is fucking weird.

I believe I sent him this photo:

Photo 13

I asked about the photo in his ad because, really, it needed an explanation.  How the fuck did he find pants to fit him, or did he always wear a kilt?  Was he able to actually get the whole thing inside any orifices?  I tried, I did.

Following is our email exchange.  Any misspellings, or grammar or punctuation fuck-ups are his.


SSF: I’m wondering why your ad doesn’t address the photo at all.  Yes, I am a real woman.  Yes, those are my tits, and hands, and hair.

DD:  HEY! I do not know what ad you are talking about? My ad or your ad? It does not matter. It looks like we are both real. What town do you live in?  My name is chris and I am looking for sex and mabey more fun in town. Dinking, eating, and more. here are some of my pic’s get back to me and let’s talk.

DD: Do you want to do something?

SSF: I’m talking about the photo in your ad and the same photo you’ve attached to your email.  Care to address that?

DD: that is me. I posted a bunch of ad’s but all I get is spam. Do you wan to do something? I can prove it is me if we meet. Chris

SSF: Do you want to answer my question?  If I’m going to do something then I’d like to know I’m doing it w/someone who is truthful.

DD: I am truthful! Send a pic of your face and let’s talk. If you want. I am getting your emails a little slow so that is why I did not answer your question.

[He sent me a photo of his face, but even I’m not that mean so I’ll not post it.  He has a unibrow, looks much older than his stated age of 26, and has a double chin.]

DD: why do I have to address the photo it says it all in the post. It is me! I even sent a face pic can you do that?

SSF: A picture of my face will not explain that picture of “your” dick.

DD: What is there to explan about my dick? I do not want to put my face on CL. I so not want to here back from a friend or someone that knows me. I also had to turn off my text and pic’s on cell because of some crazy person kept texting me costing me over $100 dollars so i blocked it for now.

SSF: Let me be frank w/you, Chris:  I do not believe that that photo is an accurate representation of your penis.  THAT is what I want you to address.

DD: Sorry! Drinking! I must have misspelled it.I said a face pic! I can see your face! I do not care to talk to you anymore if you do not believe me, so what! I have other emails to answer. You think I am going to send out fake pic’s and meet women! they would let me to leave if the pic did not fit me. Anyway you sound mean. I do not want to hand out with a woman that sounds and talks like that to me. I am 26 years old, short brown hair, 6’1″ tall, dd free, 194lbs, phsically fit, work out everyday. I am sorry you feel this way. I wish I had more pic’s to back it up but I do not right now. Mabey in the future I will show you and you will see the truth.

SSF: I have a Webcam if you have YIM.  My id is the same as my FULL email address.

DD: I do not have web cam on this computer. I have to much financial info on this computer.I have to watch out  on this computer with lot’s of spywear!

SSF: Are you really this dense?  I understand that it is a photo of a dick.  And if that is what yours looks like then you should know that it has some unusual attributes that need to be explained to a lady who may want to become intimate with it.

DD: You are the first to ask that question. You do your homework before you meet with guys. That is good! I used a pump to get it that big and pills.If you really want to know.

SSF: The word is “maybe,” not “mabey.”  Fine, I’m mean for thinking that a photoshopped photo is not real.  Or, if it is maybe you’d be able to explain how something of that size has affected your life.  I imagine a lot of women are unable to accommodate it, if that is actually your penis.

DD:  Using web cams and going to face book and myspace and twitter allow shit to come in and try to fuck with my stock accounts, bank accounts, financial accounts and lots more. did you not see the news about using gmail. Peopl can hack into it so easy and it has happend to me before. I got a fucking trojan horse in the computer and had all may info fucked with. I had to stop accounts on everything. Sorry if I miss spell words you are spissing me off and I am typing without looking at my emails.

SSF: Ever consider a Macintosh?  Also, you’re already on Yahoo so you have Webcam capabilities.  Either way, clearly we’re not meant to meet this way.

DD: stop emailing me

[He then sent me an email that contained an explicit photo I had sent him, and a complaint that it was not a face pic.]

DD:  would you like to talk to me on phone call me at 707 299 **** [Redacted because I’m nice, dammit.]

SSF:  I think we’ve established that I’m too mean for you.  I’m good w/that.

DD: Good  you bitch! Since you know nothing about hackers mabey your computer will be fucked over. Since you told me you go to stupied web sites that can be hacked into and destroy your computer and all the info in it. Someone could get all own info and see what I can do with it! I hope you have never used personal info on your computer! You will not even know it will be done until it is to late!

SSF: B/c I’ve decided I’d rather not call or meet you I’m a bitch?  And you still don’t know how to spell maybe, so perhaps you should stop using the word in writing.  What stupid Web sites did I tell you about?  YIM?  We’re both on Yahoo right now.  So what you’re doing is threatening me?  Really?  You do know that is a felony, right?

DD: I never threatened yo read what was typed I never said I would do anything!I said something might happen to you.


That night I did post his unredacted phone number and email address on Twitter.  And a couple of nights later I told my harrowing tale on Episode 184 of The Jamhole podcast.  The story continues, but you’ll have to listen to find out.

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.

I’ve placed and responded to a number of Craig’s List Casual Encounters ads since the Ex and I broke up in August 2007.  At this point I get emails from random dudes who want to meet me because of something I’ve posted, or because of my response to something they’ve posted.  Sometimes I meet them, sometimes I don’t.  There really is no rhyme to my reason, but I do feel very lucky that I have excellent instincts and that I’ve NEVER felt like I was in danger.  The Craig’s List Killer and I would not have met.

I received an email from one of these guys and because I was being lazy and because he wasn’t all that engaging, I referred him to my Twitter as a way for him to figure out if he really wanted to meet me.  He did.

We met for brunch at Universal Cafe, as brunch with mimosas is one of my all-time favorite activities (after the fucking, OF COURSE).  He had a cute baby face, which I really dig.  He was stocky and had some serious Popeye forearms, only much harrier.  Well, I guess Popeye (as portrayed by Robin Williams), who is also hairy as fuck.  I can work with a lot of body hair–the Ex has back hair, which is not one of the many reasons we’re not still together.

We sat in the crowded restaurant and chit-chatted.  I recall the conversation was pleasant.  Before the food arrived he rested his elbows on the table with his fingers interlaced.  I have no clue of his intent, but his posture pretty much shoved his very large, very gold ring in my face. Brass_Rat_2007_Finger

I couldn’t help but see that it was from MIT.  Was I supposed to be impressed?  As you can see, it’s fucking huge.

If I’m into a guy he definitely knows it because we’re probably fucking.  This guy was in the realm of possible fucks but something about him was not making me feel bold and sexy.  Eventually we parted ways.   No kiss, no nothing.

The guy was nice enough but he didn’t light my fire and he wore that damn ring.  I tweeted that I had mixed feelings about him, and that he had a huge, gaudy ring.  It wasn’t until after I tweeted, and got @ replies concerning said ring, that I realized he knew my Twitter because I had told him about it.  Duh.

He emailed me a link to some long-ass story on the history of the Texas-sized monstrosity he chose to wear.  I did not read it, mostly because I didn’t give a shit.  If your justification for wearing a ring requires I read a tome then we’re probably not going to get along.

He then wrote that he would not wear the ring around me.  And that’s when I knew I would not be seeing the guy again.  Worse than wearing an ugly ring is wearing an ugly ring without conviction.  Have some balls, man.  I probably would have fucked him if he had said, for example, “I went to MIT, and I wear this ring because I am proud that I attended a prestigious university.  I know it’s fucking hideous but that’s part of its charm.”

But considering we live just blocks away from each other I may see him again.  If it’s a sunny day I’ll try not to let the glare off the ring blind me.

I swear.  True story.

Soon after my husband left me I decided I would no longer keep track of the number of sex partners I’ve had.  Which I’ve not.  The man who would eventually become the Ex was no. 20.  And by the time we broke up I was probably at around 30, because I cheated a whole lot.

Right now I would guess I’m not yet up to 1,000.  So I’ve fucked somewhere between 30 and 1,000 men (and of course some women).  I admit that’s quite a range, but do numbers matter all that much?

Numbers don’t matter, but volume does, because I LOVE fucking sluts.  LOVE it.  I want to know all details of the other people a guy’s fucked.  I want to know that the guy’s put his dick in all the holes he’s encountered.  I want to suck the cock that’s been in the pussies, and asses, and mouths.  And a bi guy–HOT because he’s had the opportunity to be an even bigger slut.  Hearing about all the dirty fun a guy’s had–or better yet, is currently having–makes me want to fuck him even more.

I also don’t keep track of names.  In my experience names aren’t all that important anyway.  Knowing a person’s name does not equate knowing the person, and people who think it does weird me out a bit.  I think it’s creepy when someone I’m fucking or sucking says my name too much–and I’ve told them as much (y’all know who you are).  I’m a person, not a name.

Nor do I know what my “ideal” cock size is.  I simply do not know.  The size that feels good in my hand/mouth/pussy/ass is optimal.  Amazingly enough, I do not keep a tape measure next to the bed, or anywhere in my apartment.  I do tend to be a bit of a size queen, but I’ve not kicked a guy with a hard cock and a fun attitude out of bed based on the size of his tool.

I swear.  True story.