We always let each other be who we were, or at least who we thought we were at that time, what is a shame is neither of us could admit to who we were, or wanted to be, we were still hiding crucial parts of who we were. He still let me be who as I was, scream, cry, act like raging crazy, throw a fit if I needed to throw a fit, fuck when I wanted to fuck. He accepted my truly horrible destructive sides–along with my sweet, creative, loving sides. But, when you are still in hiding, from yourself, it just isn’t enough.

There were times when I really felt married, when we were really two people in love. Those simple times when the mundane tasks are what made us happy, made us a couple. The grocery store, riding MUNI together before work, walking around the city on Sunday morning, and the laundry. These daily tasks, I still think about with a certain amount of simple pleasure. We lived right downtown, our laundry mat was right across the street from our apartment. He would help me carry all the laundry over and I would get it started, then he would come back an join me during the dryer period, we would talk, read, share a beer, people watch, and flirt, play house, play husband and wife. Then we would fold together.

For being right downtown San Francisco our laundry mat would be surprisingly barren at times. It would often just be the two of in there for hours, just sitting there watching the neighborhood roll by the big glass window. We were always a playful sort of couple, did not ever inhibit ourselves in public, either when fighting or having a good time. One dusky Sunday evening he came in, I was standing between the two rows of dryers–the only one in there, waiting on ours to finish, reading. We chatted, drank our beer, hung on each other. Between the two rows of machines, the view of our bodies were cut in half from the outside vantage point. As we nursed the beer, I stood in front of him, my ass to his dick and began to slow grind onto him, performing my version of a standing stripper dance, getting him sufficiently worked up, which was always easy. His thick cock would always answer my call.

Once straining against his jeans, visibly unable to contain himself any longer, I lowered my self toward his throb. I was gone from view; he looked alone in the laundry mat. I unbuckled the belt, undid the pants and got his nice big hard dick out, and began to work my lips all around it, with the smell of soap, bleach and cock filling my scent. I liked to slobber all over him and get him so super slippery. He was the kind of many whom like solid blow job, rough, with strong suction, I always obliged.

His knees began to fold a bit, I sensed he was wanting to cum. I gripped my hand around the base of his cock, cupping his balls, looked up and declared “No cumming for you!” My pussy was thumping by no and I wanted that fat cock in me regardless who might see. I yanked my own jeans down past my hips, down to my thighs and bent over one of the dryers, he wasted no time plunging deep into me. Whew….nothing like husband and wife fuck, no condom, no inhibition, no hesitation, it hurt every time he would first stab into me, that pain in pleasure hurt, as my wetness devoured every bit of him. He thrust further, I grabbed on the dryer accepting his cock, my ass up against his drive. When he was about to cum, he grabbed onto my shoulders and wrenched me even further into him, melding us, then shot into me, I clinched hard around his hard dick, making myself cum all over him, as our body spasm met. Such a good married fuck. As he pulled out I could feel our cum dripping down my thighs, I could smell it mixing with the scent of clean laundry.

Laundry was originally published June, 2009.

Because I am too busy pleasing a fat persistently hard cock, I am pulling a post from the deep storage, the archive, the vaults, the closed stacks.

Now I must get back to the cock, to my spread thighs, to the man lapping at my pussy–keeping me in persistent soak, and back to the cock for breakfast.

I used to date this man, a whim, not a keeper, but a time passer, the first man after my divorce. He was a librarian too. The male librarian is not the same as the female librarian. The hot librarian archetype does not apply to the male version of my species, although they do tend, like me, to be sexually freaky. As a personality type, they tend wear crumpled suits with cigarette holes in the pants, they are nervous, on the edge of being under a blown stress out at all times, they are the quite type you wonder about.

Back to the man. He looked like Vladimir Lenin, my friends all called him Vladdy, “where’s Vladdy?” He had the bald head; I used to wrap my legs around his head and drop my pussy right on top of his bald cranium, feeling the wetness and the suction from my cunt to his skin. It really felt quite fantastic, if you are bald you should try it.

If we went to parties, he would scope out friends of mine, friends with features similar to mine, reddish hair, full ass, and then he would “accidentally” grab a feel, pretending he thought it was me. The first time he did this, I thought, hmmmm—maybe it was an accident, but eventually I became a co-conspirator in his little ass game, it was entertaining. One friend though, we look pretty similar, must have gotten her ass grabbed 50 times by him.

Vladdy and I would spend a lot of time driving around Oakland, taking pictures, checking out prostitutes, drinking in dive bars, we often frequented the White Horse Inn, the legendary gay bar, that’s been in operation for 75 years. We also frequented the hot tubs in Berkeley, also pleasurable. We would get sloppy drunk, actually I stayed sloppy drunk for about two years after my divorce, I had just found an equally as sloppy partner. We would get sloshed go back to his place, slowly remove bits of clothing, while doing so we would draw each other, each drawing with less clothing, until we were naked. His drawings were more simple, a line varied width style, mine would be more detailed, or detailed heavily in one area then fall off in all the other areas.

Vladdy was a pussy worshiper, well–and a cock worshiper too, but since I pack pussy he worshiped at my pussy. He would stay in there forever if I permitted him to. He probably would have crawled up my snatch, set up a home for himself if he could. He was submissive. With his submissive type, I am both very good and very bad, and to the submissive–that is still very good. I found my self using him all in kinds of ways. I would make him fuck me with his mouth; I would ride his face, grind into him, cum all over him, and then not reciprocate. When I did, I pounded him like crazy; when he fucked me I would get my fingers slicked up with spit and ram his ass with each trust into my pussy. Often, on those drunken dive bar nights, I would nearly assault his ass. He loved it, I fucked him harder each time, but each time, it was with more and more disdain, and it made me fuck him harder. I would fuck him until I was done cumming; however many times it would be, then not really care if he ever came. What a selfish mannish girl I was.

He was also chronic masturbator, if we were not out of the apartment doing those other things; he was either masturbating or serving my cunt. One time I left him in my apartment, while I went to run some errands. I came home sooner than anticipated. I found him at my computer, watching porn, wearing a pair of my panties, masturbating, and chain smoking. It was quite a sight.

We had a good run, but in the end I used him, I fucked him, I “fucked-used” him. It was never going to work; I would only always be fuck-using him. It ended rather badly, he became sort of stalker-esq, librarian weird, very needy, needy of my fingers to be buried in ass, and while this is fun–a girl need to fucked-used sometimes too. It was all just too one sided of a sex life. I am in search of a man who will let me bend him over, but who will do the same to me. I need to be used, fuck-used. I need fingers in my ass while you fuck me, I need to be handled, but then have the opportunity to handle as well.

Make sense?

He asked me–
“don’t you want love, isn’t that the goal? Don’t you want to wake up next to someone?”

And I sat there for a moment slightly dumbfounded. I wanted scream out. Yes! Damn it I do! of course I do, there is nothing I want more than that. I want to share a breath, my moments–the challenging, the monumental, the mundane. I want to share my bed, your bed. Yes I do, of course I want love.

Remember what that first love was like? All consuming, fueled like a crime spree, nothing else mattered, the reach and strain only came from our sex. Your cock always straining to get to my cunt. Our minds buried between the others thighs, tangled together like overgrown summer grasses. It was innocent and simple. It is learning how to have sex, how compromise  your way to pussy, to erection–how to make each other cum. Lessons we learn to take to next one we fall in love with.

Second love? I married mine. It was sex, drugs and rock and roll. It was artist to artist conflict, it was fucking unleashed, tumultuous as a late summer tornado–the sky turned black, the air caught sparks of an electric fire of two. The city was ours, it felt like we revolved around it, the city, our love, our fucking embodied this feeling of the city. We were here to do something, we were here to create art–to live, love and fuck like artist. We did– until we let our city and our narcissistic personalities sully and turn it to shit. It was this love that began to change me, change my personality, build on my cynical bitterness–an ugly side of me. A bag I held on to for too long, a bag I took with me when I fell in love for the third time.

Third love? The ultimate take me there then tear me down, ravaged my brain and soul, it destroyed me. It was everything, love, passion, hate. We fucked all night and all morning. I fell back in love with San Francisco when I feel in love with the gangster. He took me places I had never seen in the city, places we would go to at the break of dawn, when every thing is orange and wet. Together we were raw energy, inseparable–for a time.  But pain beget pain and we turned into some form of a twisted love life.

Since the loss of my love life, I think, purposefully, I may have been putting myself in the situation of avoiding love, or more so of avoiding heartache. I opt to play the role of slut. There were times when I allowed love to slip in, but it left as quickly as it came. Love is not as easy as it was when I was 20 or even 30. Love in San Francisco is not easy to come by. Life has a way of showing on our faces, the complications, the quirks, the way we sit in our ways.

I get enough cock, but not nearly enough love. Sometimes I feel like have this uncontrollable amount of drive and passion for not just love, but fucking and living and I don’t know where to put it all, so I slut it. But, in the end,  it never does it for me like I need it too. Those who want all this fuck passion or fucked up passion, are rare and far between– and all the cocks I suck in search for the next great passion– are merely that, just cock. My mouth like a dowsing wand for turgid maleness, my cunt a repository of cock that is not for me, not mine, not the one.

What do I do with it, with all this want, with all this passion between my thighs? I don’t know where to put it, I don’t how to use it and often end up abusing it. Drowning it with my own cum.

Well, it is raining again. I have found myself obsessed with songs about the rain, about love and loss, about crying in the rain.

It’s raining so hard
Looks like it’s gonna rain all night
And this is the time
I’d love to be holding you tight
But I guess I’ll have to accept
The fact that you’re not here
I wish the rain would hurry up
And end, my dear

The new year has really started out pretty damned lousy. There have been few memorable moments, really it has been a rainy, depressing, sick, drunken January.

Things must change. While I feel I am generally not one to be controlled by loss and anger and depression and all around bullshit, I sort of feel like it’s following me. I have lived a life of self induced struggle and moved past that stupidity, but this, this is all different. Things have not been going my way. I write and I wonder, who the fuck wants to read this self pity shit, who gives a shit what’s in this mind, because the funk I am in is not sexy, not cock fueled and certainly not full of new love. Which is why I guess I need to see it, I need to read the words, and understand why loss and pain never leave. How I hold myself back.

In just this week, my best friends boyfriend/husband got stabbed in a robbery. He is doing fine, strong and healthy, but it is still truly not right. Then over the weekend, I got a bloody DUI. Not good, not good at all. I blew it. Funny thing, I was just thinking to myself that–in 12 years of living here I have never visited the infamous 850 Bryant, that is until Friday night. What a fucking nightmare. It has me feeling like such an asshole. All of it has me down, low, like I can’t pull myself out. Low; like self destruction, addiction, fucked up love, low. I don’t know how to write about it, or feel about what I feel and I hate that. And it makes me feel small and petty. But at least I’m not dead or wounded– nor did I physically hurt anyone, except for that ego of mine– and maybe the feelings of those I love most, of course.

The past never leaves us, the loss, the grief manifests and when it resurfaces it is like experiencing the loss all over again. Some loss you still have to face everyday, some loss your still married to. Some loss, washes up on the shore or comes down with the rain. Everything lingers, every song has a past and each listen can so easily bring that pain right back.

Just like that cold August day on the beach, where sat from dawn to dark–mourning the loss of my marriage. Who was there? Jeff Buckley the Grace album–All that was so Real, that haunting rendition of Cohen’s Hallelujah. Also there, the most tragic of Elvis Costello–belting songs of pain and brokeness–A Good Year for the Roses, was played on loop.  I was broke. We were broke. We broke each other.

I spent the days and weeks that followed, sitting in that 1964 Dodge Dart Convertible wreck of car we loved so much, crying my heart out, watching the ocean roll in its ugly gray waves. Replaying the soundtrack of our life, with the largest heartache I had known at that time (amazing how much more heartache the human heart can handle).

Often I think of my marriage, in terms of quantified problems that never would have never added up right, no matter how much we may have loved each other. And then there are the times I think of my lost love as, just that– a loss. Another fuck up. I lost my cock and my best friend.

Like all great love stories of highly charged, chaotic artistic romantic lost love, it includes large amounts of debauchery followed by loathing and hate. It involved mountains of cocaine, large amounts of booze and gangster drug dealers. We had found ourselves in a friendship with the coke man, which is altogether a bad and glorious relationship. Cocaine makes you hate yourself, yet you cannot say no to it, especially when it’s free.  Our nights with the drug dealing gangster became increasingly more frequent. Sleep was elusive, awake was torture.

This night, my birthday, which will never to be the same, the celebration consisted of an eight ball, good scotch and a party at our little love shack. The night wore on  and on. The coke never stopped dropping down on the table. I didn’t want it, but was unable to refuse it. We were super high. I think we must have played that  stupid Eminem, The Marshall Mathers LP, about a hundred fucking times that night. I certainly cannot hear any song off that album ever again.

Midnight.
One AM.
Two AM.

He disappears. I am alone with a house full of Excelsior gangsters, none of which are who I actually invited to my birthday, but none the less–here we are, wondering what happened to the husband. My mind knew, I knew, nothing good was flowing through his blood, and as so often, nothing good flowed straight to his cock. I knew, I knew.

I thought I knew. But when, he came back to the apartment, with a 6′ gay black man. All of sudden– I didn’t know shit.

Was he an offering?

I never saw the  gangsters run so fast in all my life. The only one that stuck around was the cocaine man, because misery certainly likes to have two, three, four….there is more than enough pain for everybody.

The husband disappears again. Back and forth– in and out, super flying high. Anger flooding in with each open and closing of the door. They come back, the dawn is creeping, Foxy Brown is bumpin’ she’s a bad girl. The coke still droppin’ and my husband is out chasing cock. My heart is gone, not even broken or sunk –it’s just up and gone. I know, I know and I know. But, I need to know for sure. I leave the gangster there and take the walk to my art studio I had at the time, I know he is there. Descending the hallway, passing the heavy wood doors, it smells like basement, chemicals and garbage. My door is close, but I don’t even have to get to my door, I see them, their silhouettes, my husband on his knees with big black cock in his mouth, sucking like a high strung bitch.

I never made my presence known. I kicked the cocaine gangster out, I locked the door to the bedroom, packed my shit and headed for the ocean, where I spent the next week crying in the rain, listing tracks of tragedy.

Our marriage was over long before this, but this act pushed it through.

I often wonder if we only had the knowledge or bravery to talk to each other, maybe we could have worked through the sexual issues, but it was to late, it was dead already. Our love was dead, I wanted to be dead, I wanted that cock sucker to be dead.

And the rain is still coming down. And I am still obsessed with songs of rain, but now I am putting  on a little mix that stirs the potency of love. Because with love comes laughter, and laughter is always, eventually, accompanied by his partner tears.

Love Goes Up, Love Goes Down compiled by a good friend, who I miss and love,  in my time of need.
Wilson Pickett 634-5789
The Chiffons He’s So Fine
Martha Reeves and The Vandellas Heat Wave
Betty Wright Tonight is the Night
Marvin Gaye Sexual Healing A cappella style sooo good.
Ivory Joe Hunter Since I Met You Baby
Smokey Robinson and The Miracles You Really Got a Hold on Me
James Brown Please, Please, Please
Maurice Williams Stay
Jan Bradley Mama Didn’t Lie
Barbara Lynn You’ll Lose a Good Thing
The Drifters There Goes My Baby
Jackie Wilson Lonely Teardrops
Smokey Robinson and the Miracles The Tracks of My Tears

Monogamy and infidelity are two words that often go together. Monogamy is a difficult, if not impossible, situation to remain in. I have yet to be in a monogamous relationship that has not lead to infidelity in many senses of the word.

When the gangster cheated on me, it was worse than when the man I was actually married to cheated. Gangster actually fell in love with another woman. That about killed me, it wasn’t like he just fucked some bitch. It was not a simple case of stupid hard dick. It was a case of loss of love and he finding it somewhere else. My heart broke and turned to some sort of toxic crazed rage, that I kept fueled with booze, various drugs, random cock, and by never letting go of the gangster when I should have. It was truly a sick time in my life. When thinking back on it, I still get upset at how much his betrayal hurt and how I did not know how to deal with that–except for crazy.

When I was married, it was me who first dipped into disloyalty.

The first time was odd, I found myself at my local dive with two of my co-workers, one of whom happened to be close friends with my husband. We were getting into some serious drinking—eyes were glancing and dancing as fingers and hands were thigh grabbing under the table. With my inhibitions fully lubricated– my sensibility walked out of that dive bar that night. I could feel my body overcome with inebriation as my hands also slid under the table grasping at my coworkers fingers, guiding them between my legs. My pussy, always socially lubricated before me, seized, embraced and let loose all at once. I was sitting there on my bar stool with wet panties, feeling a mans cock who was not my husband. It was not until our lips locked that my judgment snapped in. When our companion left for the bathroom we shared our first kiss, it was soft, wet, tasted like booze and sizzling hot.

More drinks! More libations, more liberation. My kissing companion became more brazen, he knew I was married and yet his maneuvers were no longer a secret his hands handled openly—his lips found mine without fail. When our other co-worker finally saw, finally caught on–he looked at me like what the fuck are you doing?

That was all it took, the last kiss through me over the edge and I freaked, jumping out of my chair I flew out the bar in a complete drunken sprint, luckily I only lived three long blocks away. I never told my husband, and my husbands friend never said anything about and rarely does now, but it is a secret between us–and the man I kissed, who has now acquired the nick name “Fingers Williams.”

My second indiscretion came at the time when my marriage was truly suffering. We were at a point of dislike. Everything about the other was annoying, a struggle to smile and be happy with each other. It made this particular cab drivers moves very appealing.

This day, which eventually spanned months, was exhilarating, wild, and completely out of character. He was abrasive, rough a fucking cab driver for Christ sake. Asshole. Ahhhh the many assholes I’ve loved. He was a childhood friend, of a friend and we all ended up together on one fine SF Sunday, hitting bar after bar, in which he seemed to know every bartender. Free drinks flowed. His cabbie personality was distinctly hot. Abrasive, honest, a native San Franciscan. His kisses, his approach was all smooth natural—there was no feeling of cheating on my husband, for that moment there was no husband. Cabbie was larger than my dismal hate filled married life, he was escapism.

Taking me out of the bar, pushing me against the outside wall, the dim alley lights–lighting our way, his kisses soft–his pressure hard, pinning me against the brick, he lifted one of my legs at the thigh—so strong was he that the other legs was sort of dangling. I was being held up by my thigh and his lips. His fingers and hands explored all of my body, roughly–like only a cab driver would, his big hand rounding my curved ass down into the folds of my pussy. Cabbies full palm reached between my junction, pressing my cunt, creating liquid flow. Letting my thigh drop, but never taking his lips off mine his hand cupped my full tits, smashing, searching—dying to taste. When his fingers locked into my belt loop, I knew. He tugged hard pulling my waistband out enough—then his hand dove into the front, past my panties into my soak. He finger fucked me against the bare wall, lifting me off my feet, lips working my lips, his fingertips tangled into my bush. He made me so wet, he made me cum on his hand, in my panties. I felt my body collapse on to his big fist when I came. Along with cum, came a feeling of defeat—I came by a man who was not my husband.

I knew that night my marriage was over.

I went on with my day like any other, procrastinating online, looking at the beautiful plastic women sucking hard throbbing cock for way too long, wrote, studied minutely (very minutely), went to work. This day, this damn day, April Fools day, it means something to me, then it hit me– it was my wedding day. We were fools in love. I only recalled this because of the song playing through my ear buds-as I shelved,zoned out into my little bubble world of the library-reminded me of him. It was not in that nostalgic way, it was not a song we shared, but a newer song, that just left me with a feeling of reminiscence about the past.

Music has incredible power, magical, like a photograph. It evokes memory, capturing our history, pains, loves, fucks, friends, those people in and out of our worlds as quickly as they came in, you know– just life the simple and complicated, music is ingrained. There is certain music I cannot even listen to anymore without the tears flowing, reminding me of the tormented (sometimes self induced) past.

Back to my ex-husband. We lived through much pain and do not communicate to this day. At the time of our split it was Jeff Buckley that did it to me. In our gray cold San Francisco winter I would drive to the ocean, staring at the power of the waves, confused and angry, I would sit there for hours listen to his haunting refrains and cry cry cry. He and I had a long history so the soundtrack to our lives is also long. We lived, we fucked, we lived and fucked to a lot of good and bad music. When we got married we made a wedding album, the highlight of which, had to be Fuck like a Beast by W.A.S.P. (his pick). I should have known then it would never last. There were also sweet songs on the list, the Beatles When I’m Sixty-four, Elvis Costello A Good Year for the Roses and Indoor Fireworks, and my favorite, John Doe singing Falling at the Speed of Love. Looking back, I could say that many of the songs predicted the loss and failure of our marriage.

Some of the best sex we had was to film soundtracks. It was like we could reenact, or create our own film through sex. Our favorites were, Headwig and the Angry Inch (has sad songs I can no longer listen to), Down by Law (strange sexy John Lurie stuff) and a classic we used from the time we met, The Rocky Horror Picture Show (on vinyl). The latter was my favorite, because I got to wear a costume, sing, dance and strip. Where I grew up there was nothing much for teenagers to do (besides getting beat up by jocks), but go to the midnight weekend showing of Rocky Horror, so I had all the attire to pull off a fun, weird, corset, fishnet, feather boa, feathered hat, glittered tight fitting, raunchy sex wearing–fuck romp.

We started out by performing the movie, dancing; I would give him a bump and grind lap dance, a mix of burlesque and high school memories. I would tease with the boa, flash one tit then other, shimmy them both directly in his face. I would grind my bare ass on to his dick feeling how hard he was getting. My favorite bump and grind was to the song I Can Make you a Man. I would do a full on performance for my husband, strut, flirt, touch, teases, stroke, yank his head back– forcing my pussy on to his lips, grind and press my tits on every part of his body. Lowering myself in a thigh spread squat, stripper style, between his legs, I would take that cock– that cock that used to mine, by law—tease it with my tongue, lap at the tip in beat, run my boa along the shaft, before finally sinking my mouth around him. He was the kind of man who liked to watch–while I performed on his cock, watch my mouth unhinge to take all of him in. I would fuck him like this for the duration of a song, maybe more, feeling his cock grow even harder, with the knowledge that soon he will be fucking me properly with it, so the harder the better.

When the song Touch a Touch a Touch Me came on, we would watch each other. Me watching him stroke his big husband cock, while I gingerly slide fingers into my slick wife pussy. It was love; dirty, hot and messy. When we flipped the album it was time for the real fun. The fucking! My husband loved to bury his whole head inside me, licking me from front to back. Fucking every hole with his tongue, he was such a good ass licker. He would have me bend over the kitchen chair, my ass pointed out, rubbing his hands up my stockings, his fingers plunging into my cunt then back to my ass where he would spread my ass cheeks apart, gripping my flesh inhis large hands then plunge his head in, fucking my tightest space with his tongue, me grinding back in response, as Rose Tint my World played in my background.

All this, grinding, bouncing, cock sucking, and pussy licking was a prelude to our summation of love, husband and wife fucking. God did we fuck; still bent over the chair he would enter me slowly so I could feel every inch of him spreading my pussy apart. Once his dick was all the way in, he would grasp on to my shoulders and pull me hard back onto his cock, as if to meld our bodies, pulling me into him as far as possible. This pace, his strength his hand pulling on my shoulders and breasts would make cum, would make me soak and catch fire around his dick. Always, if that first plunge was slow and steady, I would cum. Of course after my soak, he would begin to slam into me, my ass slapping against his body with each thrust. We would fuck all over, in every possible position, until both of us would fall in a collapsed heap of feathers, glitter, and cum.

Marriage was so simple until it got complicated. Fucking came easy, we played, laughed, and lived without judgments, poor artist who would rather drink than eat, he was the “gin in my vermouth”; our early life in San Francisco was art school romantic, just as we had anticipated. Through it all music was/is an essential part; in my mind I have the eternal play-list running, the soundtrack to my life.

John and Vixen Get Hitched: Disc One

1. Billy Joel: She is Always a Woman

2. John Doe: Falling at the Speed of Love

3. Elvis Costello: Good Year for the Roses

4. Elvis Costello: Indoor Fireworks

5. Cheap Trick: Come On, Come On

6. Kiss: I Want You

7. Kiss: I Got a Rocket in my Pocket

8. Billy Holiday: My Man

9. Eagles: Take it to the Limit

10. Foreigner: Feels Like the First Time

11. Beatles: When I’m 64

12. Beatles: Rita

13. Tool: Part of Me

14. Weezer: Buddy Holly

15. Elvis Costello: My Funny Valentine

16. Elvis Costello: Sunday’s Best

17. WASP: Fuck Life a Beast

18. Counting Crows: California

19. Nirvana: Aneurysm

20. Black Crows: Diamond Ring

21. Redd Cross: I don’t want to mess around

22. Queen: Love of My Life

23. Queen: You’re My Best Friend

24. Tonic: If you Could Only See