The Blazing Shark

The Greatest Fuck That Almost Never Happened, Pt 1

In 2009 I had an uneventful hotel bar date with a nice “comedy writer type” guy. I was preoccupied with other cock and didn’t really give him a fair shot. I didn’t let him kiss me goodnight and I blew someone else 20 minutes later. I forgot all about him until he was on my TV two years ago. I didn’t think much of it other than “oh, that guy”.

A year ago we reconnected on Twitter and that lead to a bar down the hill from his place. I like to relive mediocre dates because it’s usually awkward and/or interesting. Immediately there was more attraction than I remember, but I still wasn’t dripping. As we talked more I started to feel differently. He was more direct and dirty than I remembered.

He invited me to his place and despite not yet being in an open relationship I got in his car. 10 minutes later we were watching gay porn and he was unzipping his pants and putting his cock in my mouth.

I was reluctant to take my pants off because I was trying to be a good wife; which I am not in any sense of the word. Somehow I kept him away from my pussy and took his load to my tits.

Fast forward a month and I make him take me to dinner because apparently I don’t do that enough with my husband. He plays along and a few weak drinks later we went back to his empty office. He started rubbing my pussy through my panties and slipped his fingers in. Fuck. This was going to be problematic for my marriage and his work couch.

After a sloppy, spitty blow job and 69ing we caught our breath. The regret started immediately, nothing to do with my marriage of course, but the fact I wrote him off after the first date.

My pussy throbbed for two days straight but when he offered to see me again, I kept flaking out. He makes me nervous. Fuck. I could get addicted to his hands and he kind of makes me never want to fuck my husband again. I masturbate thinking of him and send him photos of my pussy with my fingers slipping in.

But I let the flirting continue and since there was always talk of how he wanted to make me squirt I decided to let him try again.

I went out for drinks with some other guy to warm myself up and made my way to house. One minute we were talking and the next he was splashing my face and I was sitting in a puddle on his couch. He made me squirt in less than a minute. I sat in disbelief and he grabbed my hand and took me into his bedroom where he made me squirt again all over his floor. Amazon.com had kindly delivered a tarp to his house but I would only give it a 1 or 2 star rating since his bed was still soaked after several squirting orgasms: #3 (fingers/mouth), #4 (vibrator/fingers), #5 (wtf is happening down there), #6 (cock), #7 (please, I’m going to die) and #8 (heaven is a wonderful place).

I’ve learned an important lesson. I should fuck everyone on the first date.

Open Relationship Rebound #1

About 2 minutes after my husband agreed to the open relationship I was back on the online hookup sites looking for action; which really was a mistake and a waste of time because everyone knows Twitter is where the fucks are. And once I looked at the list of my followers it didn’t take me long to rekindle a previous flirtation.

I had met him a few years before I was in a relationship. He had a girlfriend and at the time and I still had morals about not fucking unavailable/involved people. I DM’d him a pretty straight forward invite to drinks and he replied instantly.

Later that night we met at a dive near his house. In person he was better looking than I remembered and instantly I was down for a makeout or whatever. Sometimes I’m so fucking dumb. We lasted at the bar for two drinks before I suggested we transition to his place. I made the mistake of leaving my car behind at the bar. He didn’t live far away and up until getting in the car everything seemed normal.

I assumed I was going back for some living room entertainment and more drinks but he skipped that and took me straight to his bedroom. I don’t know why but the room smelled like kitty litter; there wasn’t a cat or a litter box. At this point I really wanted to bail but figured I’d ride it out a bit longer…

He never kissed me. He just started acting weird and having slight ticks (not in a Tourettes kind of way, more in a psycho kind of way). I figured the easiest way to escape was to get him to cum so I said I’d watch him jerk off. For at least an hour there was no kissing and barely any communication. Just repetitive grunting, aggressive cock stroking, repeating my name and disgusting groping. I tried to play along but it was SO fucking hard. I’m surprised he didn’t rip his dick off and try to stab me with it. He had to see that I wasn’t interested or into it but kept pushing me. I was scared to piss him off. At some point he was spitting on my tits while he fucked them. Finally he came, drove me to my car and I went home. My husband woke up and asked me how my night out went but I didn’t tell him what happened because he would have been mad/sad for me.

AND the next day my cleavage was broken out! Even my skin thought the whole thing was fucking disgusting.

Cocksucker/Cockblocker

The rules of an open relationship aren’t covered in rom-coms and I don’t trust reality shows to teach me how to live my life. I’ve looked to God Google for advice but haven’t found anything that I feel I relate to; though I have found comfort in knowing I’m not the only one on the internet unhappy in a relationship.

We’re trying to figure out the rules as we go. Most of the rules pertain to me since I’m the one with the history of unhealthy decision making (driving drunk, meeting strangers, etc.).

My husband’s rules for me:

Use Condoms.

Easy- I like condoms because I’d like to continue to avoid having an aborted baby or a regular baby for the rest of my life. Somehow I’ve avoided diseases (which on a tour bus is like a sexy version of Russian Roulette) and I’d like to continue my lucky streak.

Clean the house.

Easy- I’m very motivated to keep up with my chores if the reward is an evening of blow job fun. And indentured servitude is pretty hot when I pretend like I’m living in the SF Armory but (sadly) without the cages, bondage gear, water torture and James Deen.

No fucking Mickey Rourke (or Benicio Del Toro).

Easy- I can’t build a time machine to the 80s when it would have been acceptable! I would only consider fucking Beno if it was in some sort of Oscar party 3-way with Scarlett Johansson. I think she cancels out it being a bad thing.

Try not to fuck gross dudes.

Hard- Obviously my husband doesn’t know my type. I pressed for a definition of gross but didn’t get one.

Tell me all about it!

Medium to Hard- Really? You want to know about every dude that bangs me out? In detail? What if they fuck me better than you? I should just unblock him on Twitter.

It’s now been a few weeks since the chains of a monogamous marriage have been broken. I’ve been going out more and seeing old friends, new guys and have taken my panties off a few times. My throat is getting used to random cocks again (I promise to write more about this soon) and my husband is handling it well. He’s very supportive and he likes having the Shark back in the bedroom.

My rules:

Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Really.

Hard- Because I’m not an idiot and an excellent stalker.

He surprised me with flowers when he told me he was going to have drinks with a girl. I tried to be okay with it but started bothering me more and more as the date approached. I realized it bothered me because he barely makes time for me and I was really hurt he made plans with someone else. We talked about him seeing the girl and of course all of the other issues got brought up again. As usual, I considered giving up the whole relationship but calmed down and decided to continue working on it. We were trying hard to make things better until last night when I saw an email from the girl I suspected he was going to fuck last week.

And it fucking set me off.

I didn’t know who it could be. I didn’t pry or snoop but it was driving me crazy. Once I decided to answer the question of “WHO IS SHE” for myself it took me less than 5 minutes to make a logical guess via Twitter. I wish I didn’t figure it out but at least now I know his definition of gross!

He’s agreed to not fuck other chicks until I can get a grip on my issues surrounding it. I’m still allowed to suck/fuck the world but I feel like a hypocritical guilty bitch.

Born Again Slut

Oops! I got married. It’s an embarrasing mistake and I’ve complained about it every day since I let it happen. There wasn’t a proposal or a white dress; just the saddest Las Vegas courthouse wedding possible. Basically, it was everything I could ever hope for from a wedding, but the whole marriage thing isn’t how I wanted my story to go. 

Almost four years ago when I started writing as the Blazing Shark I was single and happily embracing my sexuality. I was never on the lookout for “the one” because I never wanted to find marriage material or the future father of my perfectly named fantasy children. Regardless of my views, I was told by many women that I would never find a good guy and they suggested I stop being vulgar, stop showing so much cleavage and definitely quit fucking on the first date. But the kind of guy I was looking for wasn’t what they wanted. All I wanted was a cute and interesting guy into finger-blasting me after drinks and someone decent enough to text me after the fact so we could make plans to do it all over again (and more) at some point in the future.

I do like being in a relationship with my husband (I still shudder when typing the word) but I feel like this isn’t what I signed up for when I sucked and fucked him on the first date. This is my first real relationship and I’ve done a lot of things wrong. Things I knew better than to do but was so lost in the warm fuzzy feeling I kept going. The first year I shut myself off from the world: I stopped writing, changed my number, deleted nude photos, quit my job and moved cross country. This pattern has basically continued in some form the whole relationship. But then I would get a small taste of my old life via a random email from a flirty friend, a night out with a former fuck buddy or the rare and elusive drink with a strange and it would drive me crazy. I neglected to really think about how much of myself I was giving up and how the mistakes would add up to a negative number over time. I  assumed I needed to change to make it work.

My resentment and unhappiness consumed me until a few months ago when I was ready to walk away. Giving up seemed like the easiest way out. Other than the obvious reasons, I’m not sure why I didn’t walk away. Most people thought I should or would.

It helped when I started to forgive the choices he made and we’ve made as a couple. The almost-leaving-you conversation resolved a lot of issues but skirted around one I had been dealing with the longest and the one I tried to avoid as long as I could. A few days ago it finally came up because I couldn’t take living this makebelieve good girl bullshit anymore.

“I love you, but I need to see/date/kiss/suck/fuck other people because you are not and will never be enough.” 

I tried to say those words for months and months. You’re probably surprised that someone as sexual and open as myself would have trouble articulating my needs to a partner. It’s ridiculous how crippled I’ve become in this relationship. It sucks to sacrifice your own happiness and desires for someone else and the past months have been the most difficult of my life. Googling for therapists and “how to commit yourself to a psych ward”  during recurring isolated crying sessions and anxiety attacks isn’t fun.

When we started hashing out my needs and desire for an open relationship he was confused at first but then understood completely. And just like that the tension between us vanished and I have the biggest sense of relief. I don’t expect an open relationship to resolve everything and make the relationship perfect, but I do expect it to allow me to find myself again. I’m very happy to feel the censorship lifted from my actions and writing and hope to resume here with as much honesty as before.

Bodily Fluids You Should Probably Keep To Yourself

First dates are easy to come by for me. Unfortunately this means sometimes I double book myself and I cancel on you at the last minute or you get sloppy seconds. You might act like you care if you get the latter, but I don’t think you actually do.

On Tuesday I had two guys lined up. I cut the web geek from Twitter loose by 3pm for a blond actor from OKCupid. My former teenage self needs to realize no matter how many blond dudes I fuck, Jonathan Brandis is never coming back from the dead. 

You would think canceling with someone before you even meet them IRL would mean they wouldn’t ask you out again, but by Thursday I had date with the web geek lined up and somehow he convinced me to drive all the way downtown. Downtown feels like such a hike from the Westside, but I do like the 10 at night when you can see the LA lights sparkling like low-slung stars.

Being unsure of where to park my car, I pulled into the red zone of an ornate 1920’s building. I looked in my mirror and saw a hot guy. This can’t be my date. As he came closer I rolled down my window- he said “hello” with the slightest southern accent. Like me, he was probably trying to cover up his childhood in the South. I liked his grey linen pants and I wondered what they would look like off.

I parked my car and we headed to the curb to catch a cab. His blue-grey eyes lingered on mine and I asked if we should just skip the drinks at a bar and go up to his apartment… but for some reason he insisted we go to Seven Grand. 

It was revealed after a shot that he chose Seven Grand not for the whiskey but for a show for the waitress he recently fucked. She had been getting a little too clingy and he wanted to send a message. I helped send that message by basically shoving his face in my cleavage and grabbing his cock through is pants.

Not completely lost in pretend, I was totally digging this guy. We had some genuine chemistry and I was ready to fuck. I’m not much for making out in cabs but I couldn’t keep my tongue out of his mouth on the way back to his apartment.

Of course we got trapped in 10 minutes of awkward conversation with his older borderline gay roommate. It wasn’t a total loss because I did get a super expensive glass of wine out of it.

Finally behind closed doors our clothes came off. Stuff happened. Oral, fucking, etc. I now liked him less. After my tits were covered in cum we passed out.

I woke up to the sound of what I thought was dry heaving. When I felt another round of warm moisture on my chest I realized I was wrong. He ran to the bathroom and I wiped off my chest. Thankfully I didn’t receive a direct hit of vomit, just the splattering of what hit every other corner of his room. I heard the shower turn on. Now was my chance to escape and forget about this but the parking garage was pretty sketchy so I decided to stay. I fell back asleep before he cleaned up.

Sometimes I’m hard to wake up. Not so much when there is a tongue in my ass. It was hard to concentrate on the pleasure when the room still smelled like vom. After this strange post-coitus-post-vomit pleasure I fell asleep again. 

Finally waking up to daylight was a gift. Driving home in Friday morning rush hour traffic was not; especially when I smelled like vomit and could feel the whiskey not wanting to let me go.

riding in cars with (creepy) boys.

It was the first Sunday in April. I needed to be in North Hollywood by 6pm. My afternoon nap ran late and I was rushing to get over the hill in time. Around Sunset & Fairfax I noticed a classic car next to me. The guy behind the wheel appeared to be in his late 20s or early 30s and from what I could tell he looked pretty hot. It was hard to see his face clearly as it was shrouded in Wayfarers and a black fedora.

I’m not shy in traffic so I made eye contact and smiled. The car passed me and I took that opportunity to roll down my window- I have to do this manually- my car doesn’t have power windows because I was dumb and desperate enough to buy the cheapest model. Timing was on my side as I pulled up to the red light next to him. I leaned his direction and said, “that’s a hot car… and you’re a hot guy.” We exchanged names, he asked where I was going and I told him. Then he said “do you want to pullover and give me a hug?” I said yes and he said to follow him.

Two blocks down the street he pulled into a bank parking lot. I parked next to him and got out of my car and into his. The car was beautiful inside; I commented on the grey leather seats. They were my favorite shade of grey and worn and cracked with age. We made brief small talk about where we lived and our occupations, he only had one word answers. I had left my sunglasses in my car, and he didn’t even take his off, so I couldn’t tell if he was fixated on my low cut sweater or not. My cleavage was on full display, but I was dressed rather conservatively; I wasn’t trying, it was still daylight after all. To avoid his dark polarized stare I kept glancing at his untied high top Chucks and I tried my best to peak around my own reflection and see behind his Ray Bans.

When he leaned in to kiss me I was surprised and flattered; I kissed back. His lips were nice. The kisses were sweet and gentle with minimal tongue. He touched my breasts and my hair and kissed me a few more times before we mutually pulled away. Then he started taking his pants off: the belt, his slacks and finally his tighty-whities. He pulled his pants completely down, like to his ankles. It was broad daylight. His windows were down and untinted. There were other people in the parking lot. WTF? In doing so he revealed his flaccid penis. It was shriveled, veiny, and nestled in a nest of brown, untrimmed pubic hair. He touched my hair again, grabbing the back of my  neck and gave me a “suck my dick” kind of nudge. I told him no and he grabbed my hand and guided it to his cock. After a minute of forced massaging, his dick was still completely soft. I slowly retracted my hand and said I needed to go, I couldn’t be late. He said, “you’re so hot, you can’t just leave me like this.” I wasn’t sure what he meant since he wasn’t even erect.

All of a sudden my brain kicked in and I realized that this probably wasn’t the best situation to be in. What if the door was locked or stuck? I hoped it wasn’t and I reached for it; I pulled the silver handle down and thankfully it opened. Once outside the car I stood there for a moment. He pulled his pants up. Leaving was an abrupt transition back into the reality I left on Sunset Blvd. a few blocks away. I don’t remember our final exchange of words but I got in my car and drove off after what was probably something like an awkward “um… goodbye… and… um… uh… nice to meet you”.

My passenger window was still down. The red light at Gardner gave me time to roll it up and thoroughly apply some antibacterial gel. I soaked my hands and gasped “WHAT THE FUCK” and “OH MY GOD.”

Later that night and into the week I couldn’t seem to wash off the filthy feeling. I still can’t believe my recklessness. From what you’ve read here, my stories may seem to be a string of carefree, stupid decisions but they’re not. I’m the street smart girl. The paranoid girl. The one always concerned about the horrible things that could happen and how to handle myself. I am the girl who watches out for her friends. I’m the babysitter. This was a rare instance of letting myself live truly in the moment, unchecked. Did I do it for the fun of it… or was I doing it for the story?

The whole experience has left me full of anxiety and questions. Boundaries have been crossed that I’m not comfortable with. Not just the guy in the car but the ongoing exposure I feel with the blog and Twitter. The continually thinning line between my personal life and the BlazingShark is quite uncomfortable.

hot doggin!

I spent my first few months in Los Angeles trolling Craigslist for jobs and recovering from Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday morning hangovers. Not only am I good at landing job interviews, I also have a knack for seducing actors off the internet (as you’ve read previously). When I say actor, I mean someone with at least 5 legitimate IMDB credits.

I found Conner* on Myspace after he came up in a random browse.  His profile and photos led me to believe he was tall, dark, handsome, and a little goofy- just the way I like them. A lot of industry boys are reluctant to meet a crazy bitch off the internet, but I know how to coax them out of their comfort zone and into my room.

Initially, Conner wasn’t interested in meeting me. I think he was concerned about his squeaky clean image. His militant views on health and sexuality reminded me of my straight edge friends. I’m not always into going to bars, but I’m not sure where else adults on first dates should go. Like a good boy, he suggested a free movie in Century City in lieu of alcohol based activities. I’ve always thought movie dates should be reserved for the 2nd or 3rd date, or a middle school student without a car.

I actually didn’t have a car at the time. I survived several months in Los Angeles without one, a feat I don’t share with many girls in my demographic. The best way to get to know the city is by bike, foot and bus. A lot of people talk shit about LA’s public transit, but it’s not that bad depending on where you live and where you need to go. It can be uncomfortable at night when you’re on your way to a fancy party and lacking undergarments, but overall it was safe and only smelled of piss and shit 85% of the time.

For the date I decided to wear a short white skirt. It was a few weeks after Labor Day but the Indian Summer encouraged a fashion faux pas. I wanted to provide easy access for a movie theater fingerbang, either for Conner or the stranger sitting to the other side of me. We met in front of the AMC, Conner caught my eye immediately (he was hotter in person). He already had the tickets for the Constant Gardener and we found a seat towards the back of the theater. 129 minutes later we should have headed to my apartment but he wanted to see another film. Finally, 92 minutes later we were in his Volvo on the way to my place in Westwood.

The apartment in Westwood wasn’t a den of debauchery. It was a 2 bedroom/2 bath shared with four girls. Six weeks of sharing a bedroom with a prude Asian coed sure stifled my lifestyle. Luckily the place had a quiet getaway on roof, complete with a shallow pool and hot tub.

I invited Conner upstairs using the view as a selling point. Within 5 minutes I was naked in the hot tub and Conner was stripping down to his plaid boxers. Fuck that boy had a hot body. We talked for up to an hour before anything sexy happened but finally I broke his good boy spirit. He couldn’t keep his hands off of me and I couldn’t keep my hands off his perfectly formed cock.

We splashed around that little whirlpool for awhile before I ended up bent over the side of it. Conner didn’t want to penetrate but his cock was so hungry for a hole. This was the point in the evening when something new and exciting happened: hot dogging. Urban Dictionary defines it as “when a male rubs his penis between another person’s butt cheeks without penetrating the anus.” Because I have an ample ass it was easy for his cock to disappear in my crack. Nature’s lubricant, spit, provided the slip and slide necessary for each thrust.

This makeout session was brought to you without the help of alcohol. It probably goes down as one of my top 5 sexiest non-penetrating experiences. Conner wrapped my ass cheeks around his cock for about five minutes before he jizzed on my lower back. Since I couldn’t reach it with my tongue, I washed it off in the water shared by the apartment building residents. I’m not sure if that is more or less gross than pissing in a public pool.

Conner occasionally calls me. He’s usually driving home after an audition or in bed with his hand on his cock. I’ve seen him a few times since and we still haven’t fucked- he’s scared of my sexuality and the power it has over his own.

*name changed to protect his “career”

beachside backseat blow job party bingo

My friend Eddie is from DC, lives in NYC, and visits LA when the flights are cheap and the drinks are free.

Eddie came to visit about a year ago. After work on a Tuesday I received a Facebook message announcing his arrival. He had some time to kill, and conveniently he was at a bar five blocks from my house. I put a bra on and rode my bike over to Sonny Mclean’s and found Eddie sitting at the bar dressed like a typical Williamsburg hipster: denim cut-off short shorts and a full beard. We drank and swapped pussy-war stories for a few hours while he waited for his friend to show up… and after I was sufficiently buzzed he showed up. Rob’s attire was similar to Eddie’s but he topped off his hipper than thou look with a straw fedora. Oh Brooklyn boys, you really do it for me. Sometimes you guys make me think that I chose the wrong coast- especially when I peep the NYC zip codes on the dating sites!!

The boys chatted for a few minutes about things I knew nothing about. I watched the pint of Newcastle in front of me splash around the glass and level and lower with each sip. The quiet time with my free beer made me realize I had one thing on my mind: sucking cock. In an appropriate pause in conversation I made my desire known. Both boys smiled and laughed. Eddie had a girlfriend so his cock was off limits but Rob was available and willing. I gave them my address and told them meet me at my house in 15 minutes. I rode home and was very disappointed to find my roomie entertaining guests… it was going to be hard to sneak 2 guys in for a quick oral session.

Eddie called and said they were parked outside. Since my apartment was a bubble of awkwardness ready to burst, I decided to handle this beej street walker style. It was always a risky move to hookup on my street before midnight. My white bread Santa Monican street was always fairly busy due to nearby stores and restaurants. So like a hooker hard up for cash, I climbed in the backseat of the two door compact car and Rob followed me. A flirty sentence lead to the usual pants unzip & cock pullout, and without much hesitation my mouth was balls deep on his cock. I gagged and slobbered and bobbed up and down while Eddie watched and gave a play by play from the front seat. Outside my neighbor walked his dirty, scruffy white dog and smoked a cigarette.

It didn’t take long for Rob to jizz down my throat. The three of us swapped smiles and broke into a euphoric, surprised laughter. Rob put is limping cock away, which prompted me to get out of the car. I walked to my door, smiled at my neighbor on the lamp-lit sidewalk and the boys drove off into the misty night.

let’s talk about sex.

Let’s talk about sex. My mother never had the official talk with me. I remember her attempts to segue into it, which resulted in me running out of the room screaming with my hands covering my ears. She was too late, because I had already pieced most of it together.

Growing up around animals you get to know the basic mechanics of sex pretty quickly. It’s hard to turn away from the comical scene of a rooster humping a hen. When I transitioned from private to public elementary school, I remember feeling like the other kids knew way more about sex than I did; so I spent hours researching words like sex, rape, sodomy, cunnilingus, etc. in the dictionary and encyclopedia (can you remember the days of not being able to Google sex related topics?!). 5th grade sex ed. class filled me in on what I couldn’t figure out on my own. The pictures in the barely-updated-since-60s textbook explained a lot, but still didn’t show the actual act.  It was on a friend’s farm where I really understood, nothing like witnessing a stallion violently mounting a mare to teach you about fucking.

Other than the 3.5 times my mother tried to to initiate the talk, we didn’t talk about sex, we didn’t watch sex heavy films, or even act like the act itself existed. I learned at a young age to avoid talking to my mom about boys. Her stern lectures about not needing a man and not being allowed to date made my schoolmate crushes a thing of secrecy. I felt repressed and alone. This mentality made my interactions with guys even more awkward than they already were for a weird teenage girl.

It’s hard to live a secret life. It’s hard to keep your parents from answering the phone when a boy calls. It’s hard pretending to stay at a friend’s house and actually driving several states away to meet an older boyfriend. And even now, in my late 20s, it’s hard to open up to my parents about my “love” life.

VDs & perversions of a young girl’s mind

Valentine’s Day came and went and I didn’t even get a pearl necklace! The day was spent finishing up my move to West Hollywood. The night was spent at Target, eating a horrible meal at Mel’s, and a 12 hour Benadryl induced sleep.

VD doesn’t do much for me socially or sexually: I’m usually not in love in February (or March, or April, or May, or June, or July, or August,  or September, or November, or December, or January). I wish we’d get back to the pagan roots of the holiday, because the modern incarnation is boring. If the Christians didn’t stomp out the Lupercalia festival in the 5th century we’d be celebrating she-sharkswolves and fertility by killing a couple goats and puppy… and spanking on young women. A good ol’ party in ancient Rome sounds way better than a box of artificially flavored chocolates, roses (painfully picked by underpaid women in Colombia), blood diamonds, edible panties and once a year anal offerings.

When I was little, before the red and pink balloons and over-aired jewelry commercials ruined the holiday for me, I liked exchanging cute/cheap cards with my classmates. The candy wasn’t bad either. In high school the card exchanges went away… but by then I was swapping other things with the student body.

Every year around Valentine’s Day my high school put on a fundraiser. They charged $5 for a computerized love match test, complete with a dot-matrix print out. You could get a test for the entire school, or by grade level- of course I paid for all 5.

It was one of my favorite school sponsored activities (I also enjoyed the Sr. Class Auction- more on that in the future). The test worked the same way any online dating test works. You fill out your likes and dislikes and the fancy computer spits out your top matches on red and white perforated paper. Included was their grade level, which made things easy for a creepy stalker like myself. I’d go down the list one by one figuring out who these matches were… and my access to the guidance counselor’s files were particularly useful. That office provided me with a wealth of information: yearbooks and class schedules.

My high school was large but for the most part we all knew each other. 75% of the guys on the list were friends or guys I had already tried to get with. By get with, I mean a hot and heavy hallway french kiss or a fingerbang session in the school’s stairwell or parking lot. The rest of the list was made up of unknowns. Most were unknown for a reason, they were the D&D playing set, stoners, male cheerleaders, or the academic elite. Once I weeded through my friends and the rejects, there was always one guy near the top with some potential.

Towards the end of freshman year I developed an intense crush on my #3 match. His name was Jeff. He was a year older and in a popular local band. He wore vans and band tshirts and had really great side burns. Between classes I’d pass him notes in the hall. On spiral notebook paper I wrote “you’re really hot” or “we should makeout” and drew bizarre pictures surrounding the text: flowers, trees, me holding a knife chasing him on a skateboard, clouds, birds, guns, kittens, etc. Jeff was freaked out by my intense attention, especially after I penned a note in blood. I still don’t know what possessed me to take the whole obsession with him to that extreme.

How the blood note came to be is a fairly clear memory of my teenage years. I wrote  it in the third row,  5th seat back of a windowless  study hall classroom. My navy blue Jansport backpack was covered in paint and a couple of safety pins. I used the pins to prick my finger and slowly formed the words “I want to rape you.” A few kids sitting nearby saw what I was doing and responded with laughter or disgusted looks, but no one told the teacher. Once I was done writing and the blood dried I folded it up and waited for the bell to ring. I was the first student out of the classroom and I headed to Jeff’s locker. He was reaching for a biology book as I surprised him from behind. I gave him the note and skipped off.

Jeff’s immediate reaction was not known, but the rumor of the note began to spread over the next several days. With time people talked about it less, but I would gladly remind them, specifically for a laugh. The note didn’t produce the results I was looking for; I certainly did not get to rape Jeff. I’m thankful that he (or the other people in the know) didn’t report me to the principal, a move that surely would have landed me in the local mental health hospital. A year or two later Jeff and I became friends. We spent late night hours on the phone with each other. Even the late night talks didn’t produce the sex my teenage self so desperately wanted.

A few years ago we met for drinks when I was visiting from LA. As last call approached he walked me to my car. It was parked up against the concrete train bridge under the only light in the old station’s parking lot. Finally, after years of obsession and lust he kissed me… but I felt nothing. The pussy throbbing attraction and unhealthy interest had been lost between the sheets of all my other experiences.

hjs, bjs, mjs

I used to work at the mall. Can you believe it? And not just one mall job, but two. I’m barely suited to work in an office but imagine me at a kiosk counter in the middle of a rural suburban nightmare.

My medium sized town had the only mall within a 45 minute drive. When I was a little girl I remember thinking it was scary; something about it reminded me of the evil queen in Snow White. Funny that I wouldn’t find the mall scary when strange, older  guys lured me outside for a finger bang. Before I was old enough to shop on my own, my parents would take me on quarterly school clothes shopping trips. We only frequented the best stores:  Montgomery Ward or Sears. Those were the days when I thought shopping at Penney’s was cool because everyone else shopped there, except me.

As I grew up the archaic and unhip department stores lost their business to big box retailers or fell into the gaps. Other than the movies or the mall there isn’t much to do off an Interstate exit 50+ miles removed from any major city. I-95, I-81, I-64, the 40, the 10 and all the other major highways are all basically the same lines of motion stretched every which way across our country. In the empty miles between urban sprawl and suburbia and bum-fuck-nowhere you’ll find a comforting, bright beacon: a familiar string of mass produced neon lights.

This common familiarity starts with lunch at a fast food chain; an afternoon at the mall or even better, a strip mall; dinner at [insert any crap chain restaurant here]; drinks at [insert any crap chain restaurant here]; late night snack at Taco Bell; time and money wasted at a 24/7 Walmart; breakfast at Denny’s; coffee at Starbucks; repeat; repeat; drive 62.31 miles (any direction you want!) to totally new place ; repeat; repeat; drive some more; repeat, repeat, repeat, ad nauseum.

It’s only natural that a young girl with limited employment options is attracted to a job at a nice clothing store in a low caliber, outdated mall.

Where else is the small-town-get-me-outta-here-wannabe-slut gonna make money? Outback? I don’t like that kind of meat. Pepboys? I don’t like that kind of lube. Daycare? I’m not fit to be around children.

My first mall job was at a clothing store. At 18 I already had enough slutty fashion sense to entice a man, so selling shit to the frumpy, far from MILFy soccer moms was oddly fun. I encouraged them to try more  husband approved looks. Under my tutelage, they willingly went for the no bra required tops or the too tight jeans. I’d convince them they needed the white stretch Christina Aguilera-ish pants. Sometimes the tummies needing a tuck would sneak out between a button up shirt or bulge under a fitted dress, I did my best to instill confidence in the women with these bodies gone bad. I rarely had people return clothes, I can only assume their husbands were very satisfied.

In between customers  I tried on a lot of clothes;  I’d slide my big ass, formerly known as a tight little size 2, into every style of pants in the store. Thanks to this job, my closet was overflowing with great clothes for a year or two; and between washes, those clothes were often covered in cum stains.

Going to the mall job wasn’t just about money, it was also about flirting and seducing other mall employees. By seducing I mainly mean fingerbanging. Yes, I was fingerbanged A LOT at that mall…. and that’s how I took the title of All Region Miss Mall Finger Bang Queen 1996-1999. Now work is about money and getting to the end of the day so I can pick up teens at the Beverly Center.

.*Not my mouth

sorry daddy, i bang the worst dudes.

This entry is in reply to http://sorry-mom.com/ (SFW). A lot of people have sent me to that blog in the past day. They tell me I will love it! I’m a fan of collaborative blogs like it and I do enjoy seeing what people are willing to admit to under the protection of anonymity (eh hmm).

Overall, that blog is funny, but a bit negative and accusatory for my taste.        Two quick comments about it:

1. Some of those guys look hot. Where I can find them on the internets??
2. I don’t feel enough of the girls take ownership for the horrible sex situations they ended up in. While I identify with their plight, it’s not my style to call out other people for my own mistakes. If you “buy the ticket, take the ride.” And if you do not like the ride after the first go around (if it’s weird or gross, etc.) don’t ride it again and again even if there isn’t a line!

The sorry-mom, I’m a total fucking skank blog and an unrelated phone call got me thinking about interpretation. I find there is much to lose and gain in open interpretation. So much of the internet exists in the realm of fictional reality. We all get our own meaning out of different things. People tell me that my blog is:  great jerk off material; a relatable story; a fantasy; boring; good writing; a sex blog; erotica; over the top; brutally honest;  a lie. I’ve struggled to whittle it down to a word or phrase that best sums it up, but in this moment it still eludes me.

Friends and readers have sent me every sex related blog they can think of. I have skimmed the online work of prostitutes, lonely little girl sluts and sexually open intellectuals. I think I’m supposed to find some alignment in one of those camps, but I don’t.

The process of scientifically naming this blog baby o’mine is interesting. Maybe I can’t identity what this is that I’m writing, because I am not yet what I want to be. Almost everything inside of me wants to produce an honest representation of sex, like what I’ve found in the works of Solondz, Cronenberg, Gallo, Breillat, Almodovar, and my list goes on and on                   —-> If you’re clueless… please go to Netflix/IMDB right now.

Reading about sex is my least favorite way to experience the subject. Words on a page, no matter how beautifully and filthfully crafted, cannot arouse me the way watching a thoughtfully constructed scene does. With text, I am the master of my imagination as it constructs what it is I want to see, regardless of what the author intended.

As to what I intend here, I’m still not sure. I know I intend to not masturbate anymore for several days because I’m pretty sure I’m close to ruining my clit forever, damn Magic Wand.

probleming drink

I don’t have a drinking problem but sometimes I have problems while drinking. Open bars and backstage booze are my worst enemies. Under normal circumstances I take it easy. But lately, because of the extra holiday cash in my pockets, I’ve been drinking more than usual- thanks Mom & Dad! Tonight I’m presented with several meet me for drinks options all over this fine city, and with my office closing at noon tomorrow… I’m very tempted.

Option 1:

IO West improv show w/ sneaky BYOB. I’ve been telling my friend for weeks I’d see his show, but parking is so terrible off of Hollywood Blvd. FAIL

Option 2:

Drinks with the French Film Guys I met at the top of Runyon. As much as I’d like to handle these two dudes at once, I’m lazy. Plus, I think they seem interested in having a bevy of girls to choose from and my few female friends are probably busy. FAIL

Option 3:

A nearby wine bar. This is the only one that may motivate me out of the house tonight. I’d be dressed already if I wasn’t getting over a cold and tired from my personal training session. A guy I have had a crush on for years will be there. I also invited one of our mutual friends, who declined the offer, but was nice enough to remind me of the story below:

Two years ago one of my best male friends, *Billy, moved to LA and stayed with me for a few months. We hung out a few times a week when our busy work and social calendars allowed; I had some good Sundays with him.  Before I bought a car we took the bus everywhere, even at night. I was sick of wearing next to nothing + stilettos on the ride home at 3:43am so I finally broke down and bought a car. Within  a month of buying the car, our friendship was over.

Billy wanted to see a band play at the Fonda, I was on board with this as my friend was the tour manager. Back East, Billy and I went to a lot of shows. He was straight edge and took responsibility for driving my drunk, slutty ass to and from the shows. In return he got in free and got to hang out with some of his favorite bands. The music was mainly metal and hardcore; I liked some of it but I was definitely there for the musicians and not the music.

We arrived at the Fonda and my friend came out with passes for both of us.  Billy immediately found a good spot near the stage and I went to the basement for a Jack and Coca-Cola.  Per my usual show routine, I identified the one nice guy  who would gladly babysit befriend me and entertain me while I waited for the after party. *Tour Guy #72’s job that night, other than guitar tech/merch guy/assistant tour manager/bus driver, was to pump me full of liquor and weed for hours and then pass me off to the guys I really wanted to get with- the ones in horrible music videos on Mtv2 and Fuse.

Around the time the show ended I was already a fifth of whiskey into my night. Things get spotty here. I remember sitting in a comfy chair on the roof talking about how badly I wanted to go swimming. Then I remember choking on a cock tucked away in one of Music Box’s dirty, dusty corners- the corners that roadies know best. And I do mean choking: gagging, gasping, eyes watering, gonna barf, throat hurtin’ choking.

In the twilight moments before passing out, I do not like sucking cock. Maybe a little licky-kiss-kiss here and there, but nothing too intense. If you’re into skull fucking, please save it for when I’m sober and I’ll try to accommodate you.

What happened next is not something I’m proud of: I started crying. Like a girl having a bad birthday at a bar, I just broke down. I blamed the tears on the painful throat fuck mixed with a little lot to drink.

Now with a few years of age and insight, I know there is a little more to the tears. A sexually related crying spell wasn’t unusual for me at age 25 and under. I know I put myself in shitty situations: losers+liquor=not a good combo. Just in the past few years, I’ve learned to deal with and avoid the douchebags, the disrespect and the psuedo-date rape.

At least Tour Guy #72 wasn’t a total asshole. When he realized I was upset he stopped mid-throat-thrust and asked if I was okay. I wasn’t and wanted to leave, but he wanted me to stay- he wanted me to finish him off. I guess crying was his thing. I stood up and wiped the saliva off my face with the back of my hand. I walked away and went to find my friend.

Billy was waiting for me in the lobby of the theatre. He read my face. He knew what had happened. As we walked to the car, he laughed as I made an inappropriate joke at my own expense.  I bounced back to my regular self quickly, and we headed to a party in Silver Lake.

After we located the party,  it took me all of 5 minutes to end up in a bedroom with someone (the crush mentioned above). Within seconds I was back on my knees, wobbling to get his pants down and his dick in my mouth. As much as I wanted his huge cock, my mouth was not accepting incoming packages after all the alcohol that night. I just couldn’t bring my drunk self to do much with it. What a waste.

I didn’t give up so easily, I kept trying but my gag reflex was working overtime. Then my other crush/friend came into the room. The rest is a vague blur of crying and putting my shirt back on and getting the fuck out of there. I didn’t even find Billy before I bolted. The boys must have told him I was upset and he came outside to find me. He found me sitting, hunched over on a curb, crying. It was time to go home.

Billy drove my month old car west as I calmed down and closed my eyes in the passenger seat. I came to life a bit as we neared Hollywood because of incoming text messages. My tour manager friend was luring me to a hotel pool after party involving the band dudes I had hoped to hook up with early in the night. Two rounds of cock and crying wasn’t enough for me so I asked Billy to drop me off at the hotel. He said he would.

I opened my eyes minutes later to find he drove past Highland, past La Brea, Fairfax and La Cienega. We were in Beverly Hills and I flipped the fuck out. Kicking, screaming, cussing, crying; basically throwing a hussy hissy fit. Billy kept driving. He parked my car in the driveway of his apartment building and threw me the keys. I knew I couldn’t drive so I curled up in my backseat and slept. Hours later when the sun came up I was too drunk to drive so I dozed another hour or two then made the 2.57 mile drive to my place.

Billy hung out with me a few times after that. I apologized more than once but it didn’t seem to do any good. After all the shit we had been through in twelve years, he had enough.

*Billy - name changed

*Tour Guy #72 - I don’t actually count, this is a randomly generated number.