The Lament of a Good Time Girl.

I’m having trouble focusing on the computer screen as I type this.  Maybe it’s because I’ve had a few beers and am currently sipping Jim Bean while eating pecan pie.  Maybe it’s because I put my contact lenses in the wrong eyes (my right eye is slightly stronger than my left).   Or maybe it’s the fact that I just had amazing first time sex with a near perfect stranger. 

Perhaps, I was fucked so hard I can’t see straight, as they say.

And a near perfect stranger he was. Slightly stocky, tattooed, older, masculine, toppy, in a band—what more can a girl ask for?

He met me when I was in full stripper mode—six inch heels, big hair, glitter, false eyelashes, the whole shebang.  That night I hadn’t looked real—not “unreal” mind you, just NOT REAL.  Like a strange stripper pin up girl bettie page Barbie with one too many margaritas in her.

I had been magnetically drawn to him.  Probably cause he was wearing a vest.  Something about a man in a well tailored vest makes me want to suck his cock immediately.

I definitely got a little too close to him that night, and probably fucked up some private dance sales because of it.  Here I was letting this dude touch my ass, but as soon as a private dance patron tried to get a little frisky I got all stripper mafia on his ass and was like “HANDS TO YOURSELF SIR” in my sweetest Siouxsie Q voice.  It just didn’t seem fair.   I tried to stay away from the Hot Vest Man but I just couldn’t’ help myself and ended up getting his number and sexting him for several days after the party

Well tonight he finally came over. I admit that my margarita memory had failed me a little and I was slightly shocked when I opened the door. We had both lost our late night vampire glamour.  I was no longer 6’3’’ and he was no longer the hot dude from the band but rather just a cute tattooed guy on my front stoop.  I  let him in, kissed him chastely on his cigarette scented lips and wondered if I had made a good call inviting him over.

He had brought beer. And whisky.  So I had to give him credit for that.

We sat on my bed after an awkward introduction and tour of my apartment—I might as well have said 

“Hi roomates, this is the man I invited over to have sex with me, and now will we retire to my room to do so.  Hot Vest Man—you don’t need to know where anything is except the bathroom and my bedroom, and you should be pantsless is both locations"

We chit chated and touched each others knees, suddenly both unsure if we wanted to do this—until I took hom out to the roof where there’s a great view of Sutro Heights and an old church that is spectacularly lit from sundown til about 3am.   We are both creatures of the night, and as soon as moonlight hit our skin, the kisses fired off like bullets and it was on.

We scurried back to my bedroom and hurriedly undressed each other as if we were in a terrible early nineties drama.  He bent me over and admired the bruises on my ass.  At least someone was admiring them—I had spent the weekend doing everything from trans porn to kinky girl orgies and I had the battle scars to prove it.  Unfortunately my kink factor can be a little high even for the notoriously kinky patrons of the Lusty Lady and I felt like I had been weirding out customers all day.  But Hot Vest Man caressed my bruised ass like it was a sacred object.

This weekend I had receieved a blessing from the goddess. (I feel barfy for saying it like that, but really) She had magically postponed my period so I didn’t have to deal during a week of porn, lap dancing, and orgies.  Unfortunately, I was suffering the consequences now by a Sunday and Monday full of blood and pain.  But I was not about to pass up the chance for some alone time with one of my weekend conquests.  I didn’t really want to have the whole  “I’m on my period so can we put a towel down” convo with a dude who I had mostly communicated with via text message and tonsil hockey, so I instead opted for a porn star trick one of my co-workers had passed on to me: make up sponges.

I bravely stuck two triangular make-up sponges up my twat about 20 minutes before his arrival and felt very confident about the results.  After sticking my own fingers up there, I concluded that the velvety texture of the sponge felt so close to the texture of the inner walls of my vag that no one would be able to tell the difference except me.

I proceeded to spend the night forming another crush on someone I should probably not invest in too much emotionally.  Hot Vest Dude is great, but he’s a Gemini, just like me. A heartbreaker.   Someone who loves everyone and no one.  But how much can I complain, really? Two orgasms each, more hot body piercing and tattoos than I’ve ever seen on one single body, and lots of amazing sexy conversation over beer.  These are the nights I live for.

I kissed him goodnight at my door in much the same fashion as I kissed him when he walked in.  He said “Maybe we’ll go on a date sometime and not have to fuck.  Maybe I’ll make you dinner sometime. You’re amazing.” 

Contrary to popular belief, these are the things one says to a girl when one has no intention of actually dating her.  When on has labeled her a “good time girl” .  Somebody so fun and fuckable she can’t even be real—and so she’s not.  She’s the perfect combination—hot, DTF (down to fuck), low key, just like one of the boys--but with a pussy.  She’s not “unreal”, she’s just….not real.

It’s not like I’m sad about it, or thought he was the one or anything. I’ve just done this a lot.  And hey, I’ve got pecan pie and whiskey on my side.  I can’t really complain.

My only real problem is going to be figuring out how to get these make up sponges out of my pussy.  

Seriously. 

Every third person

There are certain moments when your life flashes before your eyes. Sometimes its when you find yourself in the back of the SF Underground in the lower Haight sitting on the lap of the girl you have a crush on and watching someone you’ve seen in porn get fisted.  And then of course, the speed at which your life is flashing only increases when the person stops getting fisted and starts getting fucked with some one’s foot.

Your life also flashes before your eyes as you wait in your room listening to Regina Spektor at 3am, awaiting a BDSM porn star you met on the internet to come over and beat the shit out of you.

Or when you end up having a threesome with your boss and the innocent looking girl at work, and you realize that the innocent looking girl –braces and all—has kind of a mean streak as she digs her nails into your ass cheeks.

 Does that ever happen to you?

My life has been flashing before my eyes a lot lately.  

And it seems that every third person I see on the street is someone I’ve seen in porn or someone I’ve “winked” at on OkCupid. 

Hot Tubs, Pony Play, and Blood Sports, oh my!

I cannot decide if I am terribly forgetful or terribly nostalgic. However, one might say that in order to be terribly nostalgic, one must be terribly forgetful.

However, I find myself feeling less wistful these days and I long for my past less and less, and only experience nostalgia for the most immediate moment as it evaporates before me.

In other words…right now I’m very happy.

The other night during the mermaid photo shoot, the Photographer paused and suddenly said “Are you familiar with ‘pony play?” I immediately tensed; suddenly aware that I was half girl half fish and that perhaps I had naively walked into some sort of super kinky aqua-bestiality fantasy of his. 

“Uh. Yes.” I answered cautiously, wondering if the next prop he would bring out for me to pose with would be a bridle and a saddle. I shuddered to think.

Much to my relief, it turned out that the Photographer was set to shoot a fetish model later that week, and she would be doing some “pony slut” looks.  She apparently also has a kinky unicorn costume she wears on occasion, which I found exciting.

So tonight the Photographer asked me if I cared to act as his assistant for the night. Which sounded both fun and hot. How could I say no to being a fly on the wall during a fetish-modeling shoot? I couldn’t.  So I didn’t.

And there I was a few hours later, lacing a buxom Asian woman with magenta hair into a frilly hot pink corset.

She wasn’t the best model.  She got embarrassed easily and despite her wealth of exciting costumes and props, she seemed highly uncomfortable in her own skin.  While she was a lovely girl, I had to fight the urge on several occasions to push her out of the way, snatch her 6 inch patent leather pumps off her toes and show her how it’s done.

But instead I was civil and made friends.  Turns out we had a lot in common: When I mentioned some lesbians that I knew who recently did a photo shoot involving Spiderman underwear and smearing each other in vials of their own blood, we found out that SHE TOO knew of some lesbians who were into blood play…but it turns out they weren’t the same lesbians. Apparently in San Francisco there are a bunch of those.

 She was not your typical fetish model with her hippie tattoos, and unshaved body hair.  She had some how fit all of her props and costumes, wigs and all into 2 saddlebags for her bicycle. I could not get over how “East Bay” that was.  

After the shoot, The Photographer asked me if I would like to join him for a glass of wine and hot tubbing at his friend’s house.  It was early, and I felt that I couldn’t say no to hot tubbing a second time. 

We arrived at a house tucked away in one of those lush green sections of Oakland that are full of blossoms and wonder. 

The Photographer’s friend was surprisingly good looking with strong features.

I instantly wanted to fuck him.

Turns out he was an opera singer, about to star in a production of La Boheme. He offered me a glass of wine that he had bottled himself on his first date with some girl.

“Wow” I said. Suddenly feeling like a teenager, “I’ve never been on a first date where I bottled my own Pinot Noir.”

“Well,” said the Opera Singer, “Clearly you’ve been dating the wrong people.”

Much to my chagrin, The Opera Singer did not join us in the hot tub.  It was just the photographer and me in a magical little garden bathed in moonlight….awkwardly sitting a safe distance away from each other. Naked.

I find that despite their health benefits, hot tubs are usually more about being awkward and naked with people you don’t know that well than about true relaxation.

All the same, I planned to enjoy myself. I loved the way when I let myself float in the water, it suddenly looked like had perfectly perky porn star breasts.  I’m sure The Photographer felt the same way, since at some point he felt that it was appropriate to come closer.  Yikes! I instantly transformed from a mermaid to a hermit crab and curled my legs up against my chest, trying to remain casual and continue our conversation.

“Your friend, The Opera Singer,” I probed, “Does he have a girlfriend?”

“Several” replied The Photographer.

Hm. I thought. Well, there are worse answers.

I made it back to the BART station and onto a train just after midnight before I turned into a pumpkin.

Back in my San Francisco apartment, I ate dinner at 1 am, standing alone in my kitchen. As I shoved seaweed and quinoa into my mouth…I suddenly felt terribly single.

Fuck. I thought.

So much for not being nostalgic these days.