Believe it or not I was a late bloomer. I was painfully shy with guys I liked and tended to put myself in the role of “one of the guys”. I was a tomboy complete with a skateboard and my Van’s. I remember one of my first crushes was on Joe Lopes. I had met him in the pages of Thrasher magazine. And in my 6th grade mind, he was totally “dreamy” – a rough and tumble skater guy who was old enough to drive. Really it was his board that I had a crush on, but nonetheless, I considered him my first crush. I used to take my Joe Lopes skateboard everywhere. I was 12 and didn’t really know how to ride. But I had saved up all my babysitting money just to buy the board. I would meet “the guys” down at the park near my house and we would ride together.
Finally, in 8th grade, one of the skater boys invited me to his place to skate on his half-pipe in his backyard. We actually never got around to skating. As soon as we got to his place, he kissed me. It was my first. I remember the look on his face as he pressed his lips against mine. As we stood there lip-to-lip, I had my eyes open until he stuck his tongue on my mouth. My eyes then shut and I could feel my toes curling and my heart beating against my chest. I was “in love” at least for the next hour.
I remember floating down his driveway after I realized I was late for dinner and rushing to get home, so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Oddly, I stuck my thumb out thinking that hitchhiking a ride home would the best solution for getting home closer to on time. And of course, the first car to pull up was the police. Yes, being arrested for hitchhiking after my first kiss may have contributed to my hesitance in getting involved with boys. If a kiss could get me arrested, than what next?
It wasn’t until high school when I would kiss a boy again. The first week of my freshmen year in high school, I invited my friend to spend the night. The plan was to sneak out to meet a couple other freshmen boys at the park. We snuck out the window and started to walk down the street toward the public park. I remember the rumble of the engine of the Mustang that pulled up along side of us. It was two senior boys. They asked us if we wanted to go for a ride. Being young and very naïve, we said yes. They took us to the local public pool and we hopped the fence to go skinny-dipping. One of the boys held my hand and this is when I had my second kiss. This time I wasn’t floating so much. I was nervous with this older “man”. We kissed for a while until he placed my hand between his legs. I could feel him getting harder, but I really had no clue what to do. He then unzipped his pants and pulled himself out. I remember just staring. I was now looking at his dick and then looking up at him. Then he whispered, “Give me a blow job” as he pointed down at himself.
Not wanting to come across as inexperienced, I naturally did what seemed the most logical thing to do. I puckered my lips and brought them close to the head of his dick and then I lightly blew. Nothing happened. I then blew a little harder but this time I blew up and down the entire shaft. Still nothing happened. I was perplexed. So I took in another deep breath and blew a bit harder. This time he asked me “what the fuck are you doing?” I responded, “um, giving you a blow job.” He then stated, “you are supposed to put my dick in your mouth.” I remember thinking that there was no way that thing was going in my mouth. And I think the only sound I could mutter was “oh”. I think my lack of enthusiasm over this prompted him to take my hand and stroke him up and down. Eventually he “popped” and I washed my hands off in the public pool. We climbed back over the fence and I hugged him goodbye. My friend and I walked back to my house as I told her about stroking him, purposefully leaving out the part about blowing on him.
The next day at school someone had written “slut” on my locker. Apparently, between leaving him at the pool and arriving at school the next morning, it was now rumored that I had lost my virginity to both him and his friend during the course of the evening. And not wanting to out myself as totally inexperienced by revealing the actual events of the night, I let the ink stay for the week. I never did date any guys from my high school from that point forward.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Ye Olde Hut
I have decided that the only thing that is predictable about the Hut is its unpredictability. Although it seems predictable that I have now gone to this bar a total of 4 times and each time a perfect track record for attracting crazy. But what is unpredictable is who else seems to be at this place. I had originally wrote about the Hut in a blog about Carmen. It took me a while to go back to the Hut, since my meeting with her included an ambulance and a temporary leave from Johnny Cash. When I finally returned to the Hut with a bunch of friends as well as my younger bro and his wife close to a year later, I was again finding myself face-to-face with crazy. That night would be remembered by the presence of Hung. Hung was exceptionally drunk and would not leave our table alone until I told him he really needed to go.
Last night, thinking I would run into nobody I knew I decided to meet a blind date at the Hut. Seriously, I had quizzed several friends for a bar recommendation that included the caveat that the bar needed to be frequented by no one I knew, have no cover and have more then beer. As I approached the bar to order a drink, I realized I knew many of the patrons crowded around the bar. Hoping they wouldn’t notice, I order my usual, Maker’s neat. The unknown men sitting against the bar loudly commented only drawing attention to my drink and me as well as the attention of the acquaintances I knew from my local coffee hangout. After getting my whiskey a space at the end of the bar opened up and I sat myself down awaiting my date. He arrived and sat himself besides me and we began that long arduous process of getting to know each other, otherwise known to me as the “interview”. Within moments an older bearded man dressed in a sailor suit sat within centimeters of my date. Any closer, he would have been in my date’s lap. I must have been staring as I watched him sidle up to my date as close as possible. I was waiting for my date to say something, but instead the guy yelled across my date, “can I buy you a drink?” I said no thanks and asked him if he normally sat that close to people. I felt uncomfortable for my date who seemed to lack the ability to mark his own space. The drunk dude looked at the guy next to me and didn’t seem to care that he was nearly sharing a barstool. He then stated, “no one wants to sit near me because I am drunk”. To which I responded, “well no one likes a super drunk dude”. My date shot me a glance as if to say, “I can’t believe you just said that”. Thankfully the drunk dude went away.
Shortly after, a biker I knew from coffee shop walked up to me and blew in my ear. I just giggled, knowing I could care less what the date thought, since it was not as if I would see him again. If he hadn’t cock blocked me, I would have cock blocked myself anyhow. I finally told my date I needed to go and also let him know I wanted to wish him the best of luck. I didn’t feel a connection.
Tonight it was another homeless drunk dude. This time I was with my best friend, Monkeyman. Monkeyman not only encourages my sassy behavior, but has come to expect it,. He was well aware of my previous experiences at the Hut and we both had pondered whether my crazy magnetism would be in effect tonight. True to form, a homeless guy entered the bar dressed in an oversized down coat and immediately bee-lined towards me. Frankly, I hadn’t really even noticed him enter the bar, my attention toward Monkeyman as we chatted away. The homeless guy first asked if we had any spare change to which we answered, we had none. He then mentioned that we could buy him food. To which we said no thanks. He looked at us both as if to say, why aren’t you giving me anything. We waited for him to go away and then giggled to one another over my perfect track record. But the evening wasn’t over. He returned. This time with a patron of the bar.
I watched as the man who originally asked us for spare change was now offering it to the patron to feed the pool table. The homeless guy then began to accuse Monkeyman of talking. In reality Monkeyman and I were simply watching this guy dig through his pockets for change. Monkeyman responded that he had said nothing, to which the homeless guy said if you don’t make a move on her, as he pointed to me, than he would. I then chimed in, “do I have a say in this?” To which he responded, “no”. He then returned to his game as Monkeyman and I shared a laugh. Monkeyman and I decided it was time to go as the homeless guy reminded us that he had 3 more minutes to make a move on me before he would step in. I giggled as I said, “is that so?” Rather than anticipate what the homeless guy was going to do, we chose to down our shots instead and make our way to the next drinking hole. It may be another long while before I go to the Hut again.
Last night, thinking I would run into nobody I knew I decided to meet a blind date at the Hut. Seriously, I had quizzed several friends for a bar recommendation that included the caveat that the bar needed to be frequented by no one I knew, have no cover and have more then beer. As I approached the bar to order a drink, I realized I knew many of the patrons crowded around the bar. Hoping they wouldn’t notice, I order my usual, Maker’s neat. The unknown men sitting against the bar loudly commented only drawing attention to my drink and me as well as the attention of the acquaintances I knew from my local coffee hangout. After getting my whiskey a space at the end of the bar opened up and I sat myself down awaiting my date. He arrived and sat himself besides me and we began that long arduous process of getting to know each other, otherwise known to me as the “interview”. Within moments an older bearded man dressed in a sailor suit sat within centimeters of my date. Any closer, he would have been in my date’s lap. I must have been staring as I watched him sidle up to my date as close as possible. I was waiting for my date to say something, but instead the guy yelled across my date, “can I buy you a drink?” I said no thanks and asked him if he normally sat that close to people. I felt uncomfortable for my date who seemed to lack the ability to mark his own space. The drunk dude looked at the guy next to me and didn’t seem to care that he was nearly sharing a barstool. He then stated, “no one wants to sit near me because I am drunk”. To which I responded, “well no one likes a super drunk dude”. My date shot me a glance as if to say, “I can’t believe you just said that”. Thankfully the drunk dude went away.
Shortly after, a biker I knew from coffee shop walked up to me and blew in my ear. I just giggled, knowing I could care less what the date thought, since it was not as if I would see him again. If he hadn’t cock blocked me, I would have cock blocked myself anyhow. I finally told my date I needed to go and also let him know I wanted to wish him the best of luck. I didn’t feel a connection.
Tonight it was another homeless drunk dude. This time I was with my best friend, Monkeyman. Monkeyman not only encourages my sassy behavior, but has come to expect it,. He was well aware of my previous experiences at the Hut and we both had pondered whether my crazy magnetism would be in effect tonight. True to form, a homeless guy entered the bar dressed in an oversized down coat and immediately bee-lined towards me. Frankly, I hadn’t really even noticed him enter the bar, my attention toward Monkeyman as we chatted away. The homeless guy first asked if we had any spare change to which we answered, we had none. He then mentioned that we could buy him food. To which we said no thanks. He looked at us both as if to say, why aren’t you giving me anything. We waited for him to go away and then giggled to one another over my perfect track record. But the evening wasn’t over. He returned. This time with a patron of the bar.
I watched as the man who originally asked us for spare change was now offering it to the patron to feed the pool table. The homeless guy then began to accuse Monkeyman of talking. In reality Monkeyman and I were simply watching this guy dig through his pockets for change. Monkeyman responded that he had said nothing, to which the homeless guy said if you don’t make a move on her, as he pointed to me, than he would. I then chimed in, “do I have a say in this?” To which he responded, “no”. He then returned to his game as Monkeyman and I shared a laugh. Monkeyman and I decided it was time to go as the homeless guy reminded us that he had 3 more minutes to make a move on me before he would step in. I giggled as I said, “is that so?” Rather than anticipate what the homeless guy was going to do, we chose to down our shots instead and make our way to the next drinking hole. It may be another long while before I go to the Hut again.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Broken Down
I have come undone. I have watched for the last year as my colleagues have packed their bags and said goodbye. And I was the grim reaper as I set the date and signed and sealed their fate. Friday I sat in the bathroom of my office as my best friend reminded me how to breathe. I watched as my hands tightened into these perfect right angles and yet I couldn’t shed a tear even as my heart pounded against my chest. I could have sworn I could see the pulse through my sweater. And as I lay in my panic stricken state, my colleague and friend questioned his relevance and began the process of ending his life.
I have sat through meeting after meeting all week long fully composed. The only difference is my usual attire of jeans and boots was replaced with blouses and heels. I think I thought I could mask my own inner turmoil in Donna Karan. Even under the brim of my vintage fedora I felt blinded by the weeks events. While I had planned to say goodbye to the latest round of casualties, I had no room for more.
I couldn’t seem to utilize my usual escape of total distraction through the company of friends’ as I stayed holed up in my home. It seems almost impossible that I came home each night after work. I reached out too in my usual way through cryptic emails asking for company yet never really saying what I really want. And as quickly as I made plans, I found excuses to negate them.
I am running. It’s in my dream and it’s the same street. Every night I am running down Market Street. It’s early morning and there are the suits and the cars and the buses and the cabs and I am just running by everyone. I don’t know where I am running to and I never seem to stop until the buzz of my alarm reminds me I am still in bed. And as I actually walk down Market each morning on my way to work, I can feel my legs burning. Begging me to just run. I look at the faces and begin to wonder what it would look like to just see me run in all my work clothes and my backpack bouncing up and down against my back.
In reality, I know exactly where I would go and how long it would take me to get there. It’s the same walk I used to take when I lived in San Francisco years before. I remember the first day it happened. I left work in the Tenderloin and hours later found myself on Ocean Beach. By the time I got there I felt calm and at ease. The day was behind me and I could finally breath.
I have sat through meeting after meeting all week long fully composed. The only difference is my usual attire of jeans and boots was replaced with blouses and heels. I think I thought I could mask my own inner turmoil in Donna Karan. Even under the brim of my vintage fedora I felt blinded by the weeks events. While I had planned to say goodbye to the latest round of casualties, I had no room for more.
I couldn’t seem to utilize my usual escape of total distraction through the company of friends’ as I stayed holed up in my home. It seems almost impossible that I came home each night after work. I reached out too in my usual way through cryptic emails asking for company yet never really saying what I really want. And as quickly as I made plans, I found excuses to negate them.
I am running. It’s in my dream and it’s the same street. Every night I am running down Market Street. It’s early morning and there are the suits and the cars and the buses and the cabs and I am just running by everyone. I don’t know where I am running to and I never seem to stop until the buzz of my alarm reminds me I am still in bed. And as I actually walk down Market each morning on my way to work, I can feel my legs burning. Begging me to just run. I look at the faces and begin to wonder what it would look like to just see me run in all my work clothes and my backpack bouncing up and down against my back.
In reality, I know exactly where I would go and how long it would take me to get there. It’s the same walk I used to take when I lived in San Francisco years before. I remember the first day it happened. I left work in the Tenderloin and hours later found myself on Ocean Beach. By the time I got there I felt calm and at ease. The day was behind me and I could finally breath.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Naughty Drawer
Aww the naughty drawer…. Doesn’t everyone have one?
While having dinner with a friend she mentioned to me that she always hides the contents of her “naughty drawer” before bringing a “date” over. It kind of perplexed me that she would choose to hide anything. After all, don’t you want your date to know what’s available bedside? The last guy to see the contents of my naughty drawer simply smiled and said, “you got to love a girl who keeps her naughty drawer well stocked with batteries and condoms”. And as I was blushing, I couldn’t help but think I hadn’t even realized what someone else would see when that drawer was open wide.
I began to think about what make up the key ingredients of a well-stocked naughty drawer. Certainly sex and the singleton requires that every basic bedside cabinetry have condoms and lube. I think I first began the mantra that “lube is everyone’s best friend” back in college when I did presentations to other students on making safer sex fun. I remember once having a paramour who seemed nearly upset over the suggestion of lube and literally refused to entertain the incorporation of lube in the bedroom. I also remember leaving shortly after he made his opinion known.
I suspect that most women also have some sort of battery-operated device if not more than one. I remember the day the Sex and the City episode aired regarding the “rabbit”. I remember having dinner with friends and talking about the device and underlying all our thoughts was do any of us have one. Sure enough one of my friends did and the next bottle of wine was spent asking each other about our favorite toys and why we loved them. And having dated my share of douche bags, I also recall a conversation in which my date let me know in no uncertain terms, toys were tantamount to cheating. That was another short lasting meal.
I also would guess that most men and women have some sort of “porn”. Well I guess it’s called porn when it’s in the form of pictures and “erotica” when it’s some overtly descriptive book or anthology of stories. The internet may have changed this though. Most guys I know will freely discuss their favorite sites and have even been kind enough to share links with me with images and comments. This of course opens the Pandora’s box in the naughty drawer and can even become the “deal breaker” in dating.
Then there are the contents that don’t fit inside of the drawer. Suitcases of rope, a closet with handcuffs and a ball gag, the wall of whips and my personal fav, only due to the shock value, was the couple that had the metal-spiked gloves on their wall above their bed. Bless them for letting their entire birthday party know as we set our jackets down and noticed their wall o-fun, that this was one kinky couple.
While having dinner with a friend she mentioned to me that she always hides the contents of her “naughty drawer” before bringing a “date” over. It kind of perplexed me that she would choose to hide anything. After all, don’t you want your date to know what’s available bedside? The last guy to see the contents of my naughty drawer simply smiled and said, “you got to love a girl who keeps her naughty drawer well stocked with batteries and condoms”. And as I was blushing, I couldn’t help but think I hadn’t even realized what someone else would see when that drawer was open wide.
I began to think about what make up the key ingredients of a well-stocked naughty drawer. Certainly sex and the singleton requires that every basic bedside cabinetry have condoms and lube. I think I first began the mantra that “lube is everyone’s best friend” back in college when I did presentations to other students on making safer sex fun. I remember once having a paramour who seemed nearly upset over the suggestion of lube and literally refused to entertain the incorporation of lube in the bedroom. I also remember leaving shortly after he made his opinion known.
I suspect that most women also have some sort of battery-operated device if not more than one. I remember the day the Sex and the City episode aired regarding the “rabbit”. I remember having dinner with friends and talking about the device and underlying all our thoughts was do any of us have one. Sure enough one of my friends did and the next bottle of wine was spent asking each other about our favorite toys and why we loved them. And having dated my share of douche bags, I also recall a conversation in which my date let me know in no uncertain terms, toys were tantamount to cheating. That was another short lasting meal.
I also would guess that most men and women have some sort of “porn”. Well I guess it’s called porn when it’s in the form of pictures and “erotica” when it’s some overtly descriptive book or anthology of stories. The internet may have changed this though. Most guys I know will freely discuss their favorite sites and have even been kind enough to share links with me with images and comments. This of course opens the Pandora’s box in the naughty drawer and can even become the “deal breaker” in dating.
Then there are the contents that don’t fit inside of the drawer. Suitcases of rope, a closet with handcuffs and a ball gag, the wall of whips and my personal fav, only due to the shock value, was the couple that had the metal-spiked gloves on their wall above their bed. Bless them for letting their entire birthday party know as we set our jackets down and noticed their wall o-fun, that this was one kinky couple.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Ghost
I am realizing that I am actually nervous. I am leaving for Los Angeles in just 2 days. It’s strange; it used to be home. Seems like a lifetime ago. And for the first time since I left, I am going to spend time with the people who were part of my everyday life. I left that life in 2000 and never looked back.
They knew me as a “we”. They never knew me outside of this definition. And when I lived in Los Angeles, I was a grad student; buried in books and working a full-time job. And on the surface, it all looked fine. I kept everyone at an arm’s length because just like the proverbial impressionist painting, my life looked fine from afar. But if you got really close you would see how fucked up it really was.
I guess the most difficult part of seeing these guys is that they did really know. They really saw all of it. And just like me, they were powerless. We all watched him slowly killing himself. Well, they watched. As for me; this was my life. I think I spent much of it with my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them I would see a different picture. It was my sick secret. As long as I never spoke about it, it wasn’t real.
I remember the day I left. I just walked out the door, got in my car and drove. I knew then I would not be coming back. I was done with Los Angeles. I never told anyone I was leaving. I just left. I remember the ride up the Grapevine. I remember pulling over because I was crying so hard I could barely breath. And I remember going down into the central valley as the music was blaring on my stereo and thinking I had escaped.
They knew me as a “we”. They never knew me outside of this definition. And when I lived in Los Angeles, I was a grad student; buried in books and working a full-time job. And on the surface, it all looked fine. I kept everyone at an arm’s length because just like the proverbial impressionist painting, my life looked fine from afar. But if you got really close you would see how fucked up it really was.
I guess the most difficult part of seeing these guys is that they did really know. They really saw all of it. And just like me, they were powerless. We all watched him slowly killing himself. Well, they watched. As for me; this was my life. I think I spent much of it with my eyes closed, hoping that when I opened them I would see a different picture. It was my sick secret. As long as I never spoke about it, it wasn’t real.
I remember the day I left. I just walked out the door, got in my car and drove. I knew then I would not be coming back. I was done with Los Angeles. I never told anyone I was leaving. I just left. I remember the ride up the Grapevine. I remember pulling over because I was crying so hard I could barely breath. And I remember going down into the central valley as the music was blaring on my stereo and thinking I had escaped.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Quote of the Day...
Thank you random homeless guy for screaming this. I still can't figure out what it means.
"He's a muffdiver driving a single bed on a double wide"
"He's a muffdiver driving a single bed on a double wide"
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
X-mas Tales from a Tenderloin Stripclub
So it's that time of year again when you start thinking about how you will be spending your holidays. I couldn't help but think about how I spent last Christmas...
Jim Beam, St. Ides and I had a wonderful time slipping ones down the g-strings of toothless "exotic dancers" in my favorite neck of the woods. Now, my intention was to have an evening of x-mas cheer visiting friends. And my night even began that way. An old friend and I decided to bust out the skateboards and toodle door to door and say hello to friends bearing gifts of home-made marmelade and lemon bars. And while back in the day i was a pretty good boarder, I was now equipped with a helmet and pads. I felt at home with the comforting smells of x-mas, St. Ides and weed. Now bear in mind I had not celebrated the holidays with Jim before and I am not sure I will again. He turned out to be not such a good influence. Or perhaps it was the rush of the oh so "cheerful memories" that shifted the tides for me.
Either way, happy holidays to the Aborigine who played pool worse than me and remembered me from a bar brawl in Indonesia and happy holidays to my new friend from Chicago who told me that she was looking forward to living in SF so she could have an ass as tight as mine. And happy holidays to my favorite heavy-metal skater for kickin' it with me in between screamin' calls with his ex. I was thrilled to be a part of your holiday love for one another last year. And I am sure she was thrilled to know we ran out of ones. I hope this holiday brings lots of love and throat lozenges.
And thank you to Peaches, Cheri, and Loqueesha (sorry if mispelled). I truly appreciated the pole dancing lesson and dating advice. I truly hoped you ladies had a wonderful holiday. And while at the moment I am not planning to make it down to the club, if I do, I know you will let me take a turn on the pole in my bike helmet and knee pads.
Jim Beam, St. Ides and I had a wonderful time slipping ones down the g-strings of toothless "exotic dancers" in my favorite neck of the woods. Now, my intention was to have an evening of x-mas cheer visiting friends. And my night even began that way. An old friend and I decided to bust out the skateboards and toodle door to door and say hello to friends bearing gifts of home-made marmelade and lemon bars. And while back in the day i was a pretty good boarder, I was now equipped with a helmet and pads. I felt at home with the comforting smells of x-mas, St. Ides and weed. Now bear in mind I had not celebrated the holidays with Jim before and I am not sure I will again. He turned out to be not such a good influence. Or perhaps it was the rush of the oh so "cheerful memories" that shifted the tides for me.
Either way, happy holidays to the Aborigine who played pool worse than me and remembered me from a bar brawl in Indonesia and happy holidays to my new friend from Chicago who told me that she was looking forward to living in SF so she could have an ass as tight as mine. And happy holidays to my favorite heavy-metal skater for kickin' it with me in between screamin' calls with his ex. I was thrilled to be a part of your holiday love for one another last year. And I am sure she was thrilled to know we ran out of ones. I hope this holiday brings lots of love and throat lozenges.
And thank you to Peaches, Cheri, and Loqueesha (sorry if mispelled). I truly appreciated the pole dancing lesson and dating advice. I truly hoped you ladies had a wonderful holiday. And while at the moment I am not planning to make it down to the club, if I do, I know you will let me take a turn on the pole in my bike helmet and knee pads.
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