"Rivers C."

What do I gotta do to get with you,
Oh, my catatonic Ivy Leaguer?
Half-Japanese girls may be your poison
but you've never had a black chick's beaver...
Sweetest thing there is around...
we black girls have got the knack!
Here's the adage, memorize it:
"Once you go black, you never go back."
Still, there's one thing that I wonder
My fantasies of you I ponder
Might I be your sweet cockteaser
sexy singer of the defunct band, Weezer? © 2006.

I am pinned against a large magnolia tree. The body thrusted up against mine belongs to the middle Richardson brother, Jeremy. I am older than he is. By about two years. His body still bears the distinct mark of youth. He is virtually hairless; I don't suspect he has to shave everyday. His skin is smooth and transluscent. We are the same height but he is strong and somewhat powerful. He can pick me up and carry me around with the same level of proficiency that I could carry a handbag.

This is the third time that we have met in some clandestined location like this. The first time was in his bedroom during a Fourth of July picnic. While everyone else was in the backyard enjoying the fireworks, Jeremy and I were dry humping each other into a stupor. The second time was at the movies. Our mothers decided that they needed adequate time to go shopping. Mine, to buy my "first semester at college" clothes, and his to buy him a "first year at private school" uniform. We were sent away with twenty dollars, respectively. Since I was old enough to get into Rated R movies, we picked one that neither of us had any interest in paying attention to. Then used our hands on each other the whole time.

Now...we're here. In a different venue.

Jeremy is dressed like any good southern boy in a crisp white button down shirt and a pair of creased khaki pants and brown Oxford shoes. His hair is sandy blonde and his bangs fall gently over his right eye.

My skirt is turquoise and made from starchy, heavy cotton. It is hiked up around my waist. My panties are hanging from a branch overhead. How they've gotten up there is as much a mystery to me as the meaning of life itself. Jeremy's left hand is kneading my breasts like dough underneath my sweater set, while his right hand works double duty holding me up and gripping my thigh.

In my hand is his cock. It's hard now because I've been stroking it a rather dangerous distance from my pussy. I like playing with fire by geting him off like this. One squirt in the wrong direction and we might become parents...

There is no snappy dialogue between the two of us. Jeremy's breath pulsates in my ear. His hips pump into my palm: 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4.

My nipples have swelled into hard little rocks. It's a new sensation for me. So is all the wetness from my cunt. It's forming a little puddle on the front of Jeremy's pants. His fingers probe the inner folds of my pussy. It's warm and cavernous. He tickles the inner folds, then jams them upwards toward my cervix.

The roughness from the tree will end up leaving a nasty vertical scar on my back, as well as innumerable scratches from the nape of my neck down to my ass.

But this is no match for the Karmic damage I am doing to myself.

You see, Jeremy is the preacher's son.

Not only that, but I am boning the preacher's son on a tree located behind our church. It's Sunday morning.

We're SUPPOSED to be stacking hymnals...

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. © 2006.

He looks like Roger Daltry circa Tommy but when he speaks, he sounds like Weirdly Gruesome from The Flintstones.

"There's compromise to every relationship," I tell myself. And so far, I'm doing my fair share of it. We've agreed to meet at this schweaty little dive bar on Hillhurst. Here I sit, amongst an assorted array of hipsters and dirty indies, that might as well be the extras in a music video by The Cramps--or better yet, a Russ Meyer film.

So far, he's felt me up twice; he keeps telling me what a "tight little package I am." That can't be good. And although I've been here with him for an hour or so, I've barely gotten a word in, edge-wise.

You see, this is a blind date. My first meeting with the Canadian. He's a broker that used to be a rockstar once upon a dream, until the U.S. recession hit and he got dropped from his label in the early 90's. Yeah...I know all about it. He's already told me the story twice and if I play my cards right, maybe he'll bore me with it again.

He's a little scruffy and he smells like a twelve year old boy who masturbates all day without cleaning up afterwards because he has no objectivity about the rankness of his own nuts. Then he goes and applies a thin layer of lip balm. Now he smells like piss and Carmex. Or as my friend calls it, "Eau d'Echo Parque."

Now, in all fairness, as creepy as this fellow is, there is still something rather endearing about him. Physically, I couldn't be happier; he's older...like around 36 or so. But he could easily pass for 28. I like what he's wearing: he looks like a skater with his big jew-fro, and vintage ACDC t-shirt. He's got on Chucks--I'm a sucker for guys in black Chucks--and his button-fly Levi's are fading out just so. He's drinking an O'douls.

The Canadian pulls me in close; he says to me, "I think this could be the start of something really special. I mean, I don't know what you've got going on but I know that I don't have anything going on and I think that you've got this--oooh---hot little body and you're just so---oooh---cute and you're wearing this little outfit, baby, that's gettin' me so hot looking at you and--oooh--I just wanna do all these dirty little things to you and you never know, you know? I mean, this could be like a little fuck or a hookup or who knows? Maybe we could fall in love...?"

Poetry.

Then he leans in and kisses me.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of us are outside. We're tongue wrestling in front of a laundromat located in the same shopping center as the bar. I'm pinned up against my old Mercedes. It's balmy outside; people are watching. I'm sure of it. The Canadian is still a bit of a performer. I think it excites him that we're now being cheered on and cat-called. I feel his hand inch its way up my thigh and over my ass. I'm not wearing panties. He seems titillated by this.

This is the one place that I see we won't be having problems. Man, can he kiss. He coos and groans and then follows that up with a diabolical little laugh. I hope it's true what they say about "crazy" being synonymous with excellent prowess in bed.
"I know you won't come home with me, but what do think about us messing around in my car? I mean, we're already out here kissing like teenagers, so I think it would be fun to have a little romance in my riiiiiiiiide..."

He's parked on the next block over...

His car is filthy. It's a late model blue station wagon. There must be at least a two-inch thick layer of dust on the thing. He talks my head off as we approach it. I'm checking out his ass. I don't know...he's growing on me a bit. Like ivy on brick... I'm feelin' him.

The Canadian opens the door for me and I climb in. I can still hear him droning on and on and on as he walks the short length of space to his door. He climbs in beside me. As soon as the door closes, he shuts up. Now we're sitting face-to-face.

"Oh, baby, you know--oooh--I'm really excited about that sweet little bum you've got there. It's just so--oooh--and I'd really love it if you'd just lean over this seat here and lift up your skirt a bit and let me have a little taste..." I don't want sex from him, but, yeah... I'll let him rim me out.

I stretch myself out across the front seat of the car (per his request) and lift up my skirt. Then I wiggle my little ass in his face. He's spellbound...

His tongue is wet and a little bit squishy. It traces circles on my cheeks and then probes my asshole. "Mmm, baby," he says while slurping away. "You're just so--oooh--tasty."

Then, he backs away from my ass and digs three fingers into my pussy all at once. It's okay, though... I'm wet for him. Now, while he's fingering me, he goes into this whole monologue about his allergies and having to go to the hospital for them. He tries to "long story...short" the anecdote, but it just goes on and on in spite of itself. Regardless, his fingers don't stop. I'm fucking them frantically.

When he finally realizes how close I am to coming, he snaps out of his verbal blitzkrieg. He finagles his way underneath my t-shirt and cups my right tit in his hand. It's so good...

After it's over, we kiss our goodbyes. I walk back to my car, recapping the evening in my head. The Canadian may not be a total keeper, but he'll make an interesting diversion until something better comes along. © 2006.

Dear Ryan:

I normally don't write cheesy letters like this, but I just couldn't help myself where you're concerned.

I've had a crush on you ever since I saw you in Murder By Numbers, starring opposite fellow sex kitten Michael Pitt. Mmm...the two of you side-by-side; him, with those full pouty Thurston Moore blow job lips. And you, with that sleazy self-important trust fund baby attitude that you do so well...I mean, even though that film was a live-action, slightly intellectual version of Beavis and Butthead, I have to say it put you on my radar...my LOOOOOOVE radar, baby.

Agnes Bruckner was good in it as well. Big up to Agnes B. Woot! Woot!

So, after that, I went out and rented The Believer in which you played an anti-semitic Jew, of all things. My, aren't we creative! I won't lie...I didn't like this film. It flared up my IBS on account of how uncomfortable the subject matter was. But you were SMOKIN' HOT in this one. I don't know, Ryan. There's something about a white boy with a shaven head that gets me wet every time...

But the one movie that you've done that really got me riled up was The Notebook. God...where do I start? You as the lovelorn Southern Gentleman. That performace is sooooo beautimus and gives me warm fuzzies each time I watch it! I even stop the DVD once Rachel McAdams comes back to you, because...well...who gives a flying fuck about those creepy old people, anyway?!

Your golden hair...those eyes...that nose...that hard little Canadian body...holy fuck, what I would do to you!

Which brings me to my proposition: As I lay here tonight, I keep running wild fantasies of you and me in my mind. I have one where we're in my apartment and you have agreed to re-inact with me the entire Robert Mapplethorpe photo installation in which I take nude pictures of you with a bullwhip up your ass. Oh, how I delight as you dance to and fro, smiling, with good ol' whippy pursed between your buttcheeks.



Then there's the one where I'm dressed up as a naughty nurse. You're a patient with a priapism. I've got to personally assist in a groundbreaking procedure to release the the pressure, thus deflating your erection. So I jump on top and I fuck you senseless until I drain your cock and your balls and you pass out from exhaustion.

Or, we could set up a picnic containing the assorted foods of my choice (Funyans, Jolly Ranchers...falafel?) which I will proceed to eat from your ass. You know...it's really up to you.

You and I are both Scorpios, so I think that guarantees that our union will not only be creative and thrilling, but sufficiently pornographic. Just know that I'm really into you and I'm very discreet. Okay, well maybe not "VERY discreet." But at least when I write about you, I'll give you a really cool alias.

Let me know, okay?


Sincerely,
Naughty Girl

Every time we fucked in her dorm, she had The Sundays "Blind" CD playing in the background. That was our musical score. The lights in her room, as in mine, were always dim. I always liked that we had that in common.

Irene was half-Japanese, half-Jewish. Her hair was fashioned in a pristene bobbed haircut. Her style was very minimalist and clean; no crazy Harajuku or Kawaii outfits for her. She rocked linen and silk fabrics, always in neutral tones. Her face was round and adorable. She had the most engaging hazel eyes that sparkled like embers. And when she talked, she cursed like a sailor. She was tough. Ah, to be beautiful yet tough...

I liked the way she smelled: She wore Cinnamon Toast by Demeter perfume. And she would always spray it everywhere that she wanted to be kissed. Her neck. Her tummy. Inbetween her thighs. Down the middle of her breasts...

She had these two dimples on the small of her back, right above her ass. I had them too. But I loved the way she looked when she sat topless on my bed.

When I kissed her, she said that it made her feel pretty. She told me I kissed like a boy...that I was aggressive. I liked the way she sank into me when we made out. She made me want to take care of her.

Her tits were small and perky. They never got in my way. Her nipples were light and a bit tan. Much different from mine. We liked the way we looked together naked. She got off on my thighs and how sculpted they looked when I stretched in the morning. I loved how soft and elegant the curves of her body were. She was slender and graceful. I liked that she walked around with no clothes on. She always did so on her tiptoes...

Guys were always trying to get us to hook up with each other for them. She and I used to laugh about that. "Who do they think we are, fuckin' circus freaks?" she'd say. We were selfish. We fucked each other to get off, not to impress.

I was completely shaven. Irene always kept a little landing strip. She would giggle when I ran my tongue alongside it...

Her pussy lips were small and pale pink. Her clit was somewhat larger and always seemed to be peaking out from the hood. Each time I touched it, she would close her eyes and whisper dirty words to me under her breath. That always got me. It was so cute...

When I'd take her cunt into my mouth, she always tasted like an unripened peach. She wasn't completely sweet but she wasn't bitter. Her juice left the best smell on my face. I would refuse to wash my hands or brush my teeth after being with her, just so I could smell her on me as I took the train back to my apartment.

My favorite part of Reeny's body was where her thighs met her ass. We'd be naked reading magazines. I would pull her onto my lap. She'd playfully dig her toes into my legs. Then, she'd rest her head back on my chest. Or, she'd curl up, tucking her knees under her chin. I'd house my hand on the fleshy part of her ass. Her thighs were always a little bit fuller than you thought they'd be.

Often times as she slept, I would pull back the covers and watch her chest heave slowly up and down. It made me feel so peaceful. Then it would get me horny. I'd usually end up going down on her until she woke up. Sometimes, she'd let me finish. Other times she'd go off on me. You never knew with her...

I remember the way her hair blew all wild when we'd ride through the city together. I remember her loud and infectious laugh. I can still feel her resting her head against my shoulder right before she'd drift off to sleep.

That was my girl...once upon a time. © 2006.

He told me today that he's moving back to San Francisco.

I've been in a catatonic state ever since.

I've liked him and chased him for almost 3 months now and just when I thought I was getting close, the door slams shut in my face.

I threw everything at the guy but the kitchen sink and he never bit. He never gave in. He wouldn't budge.

The one that got away...

I wrote this about it him in my journal, two months ago, just days after our first date:

"I can't stop thinking about him. This so painful. I wonder what he's doing right now. I think he wakes up pretty late. I want to go down on him so badly. I'd love to wake him up with a blow job. I'd love to marry him. I'd love to eat his ass. I'd love to ride him. I want him to cum on my face and on my ass. I want him to fuck my ass. I want to make out with him in a movie theatre. I want to wake up next to him on a dark Sunday morning, roll over on top of him and fuck him. I want to kiss his neck...suck his fingers. I want him to watch me while I masturbate. He has amazing eyes. I want him to finger me. I want to drink his cum...bathe in it. I want him to kiss me and nibble my lower lip as he does it. I want his hands on my ass. I want him to tell me he loves me and mean it. I want to hold hands with him. I want to shower with him. I want to watch him sleep. I want to touch his arms and feel the hair on his arms. I want his dick in my mouth. I want to smell his crotch...kiss his thighs...smell his inner thighs. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want. I want."

Man...that fool doesn't know what he's missing... (c.'06)

Swinger's Diner is located at 8020 Beverly Blvd. in Los Angeles. Across the street from this famed establishment is a vintage clothing hang that lists cowboy shirts and western accoutrement as its specialty.

Located on the side of this building, within direct view of Swingers are two vestibules. One, closer to the corner. The other, closer to an alleyway. This is where the story takes place:

Y Tu Mama Tambien was playing at the Regent Showcase Theatre on La Brea at 8:15. That gave my boyfriend and I about an hour and change to eat and hang out. We arrived at Swingers at about 7:25, movie tickets already in our possession. He parked his big utility van in front of a nice little house on the residential street just a quick sprint from the diner.

I grabbed him by the lapels of his work coat. It was one of those denim jackets with the downy sherpa lining on the collar. He smiled sheepishly at me, but went willingly. I pulled him into the closed doorway and leaned back against the hard surface.

In his oh-so-boyish way he asked, "Whatcha doin'?"

"I'm trying to seduce you."

He giggled. "What, here?"

"Why not?" I said, as I moved my right hand down to his cock.

He carefully looked around, fearful of pedestrian eavesdroppers. "Oh, man, girl--you are TOO much."

He was so good at bullshitting and acting embarrassed when he really wasn't. I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I felt it in the palm of my hand.

I wet my lips with my tongue, anticipating a deep, nasty, kiss. And that's exactly what I got. I grabbed his ass as he devoured me. He and I were so dangerous with one another. The simplest touch would always end with one of us sucking off the other, or his big dick ram-rodding my orifice of his choosing. I'd given myself to him in ways that other guys will NEVER have me. This would be no exception.

With my back against the wall, he undid my blue jeans and slipped in his hand. I wanted to make it easy for him, so I pulled them down around my hips.

"What're you doing?" He could barely speak with my tongue in his mouth.

"Gimme..." I unzipped his jeans and grabbed hold of that horse cock. I pulled it out and began to jerk it off a bit. He instantly put his hand right on top of mine and applied gentle pressure. I wasn't squeezing hard enough.

I lifted up my right leg and he didn't miss a beat; my baby plunged his meat into me, nice and smooth. I used my muscles to tighten my hot little snatch around him as much as I could. We brushed our faces up against each other's. Then, I nibbled his chin.

"Fuck me, Daddy," I demanded...

He steadied himself by putting his hand up against the hard surface near my head. I could tell from his breathing that he was about to fill me up with his cum. He pulled back.

"I wanna see your face," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he went on. "I wanna see your face when I'm fucking cumming inside you."

"Cum for me, Daddy. "

He licked my tongue, both our mouths still partially open. Approaching us from the alley right beside Swingers was a car. It flashed its highbeams at us, then eventually turned onto Beverly Blvd.

I whispered in his ear, "They think I'm your hooker. They think you're out here fucking some whore."

That's all he needed to hear. He blasted my pussy with a juicy load of cum that seemed to go on and on forever. I had to hold him up because he appeared to be getting weak in his knees.

When he pulled out of my cunt, his dick was completely deflated and and soaking wet. I shuddered as the head popped out of me.

I looked to the left of us and saw that traffic had slowed to a crawl. I knew that many of those people had been watching us get it on.

I knew that everyone in Swingers could see us fucking each other. That excited me.

Cut to:

June 2006. My [ex] boyfriend and I, now just good friends with one another, decided we would go out for a bite to eat. Chinese was too heavy. Hugo's was too expensive. Fred 62 was too far. So we settled on Swingers. We sat outside in the little area that overlooks that vestibule.

As we ate our quesadillas, I asked him if he remembered the night that he fucked me there. He simply looked at me, devilishly grinned, then popped a french fry into his mouth. (c.'06)

I walked over to the fax machine and placed a 12-page document into the feeder. I dialed the correct number and pressed send, then turned to walk back to my desk. That's when I noticed that you were staring at me. We smiled at each other.

No one would ever guess that just twenty minutes earlier...

I leaned over the mahogany desk and lifted up my dress. I was wearing a chocolate brown corduroy jumper, and a tailored brown western shirt, a pair of knee socks and brown mary janes. My hair was in "Heidi" braids.

I looked back at you and found you standing next to the copier, your jaw to the floor. "You're not wearing panties...?"

"I never do," I said. I playfully shook my ass at you to invite you to come closer. You set down your contracts and walked over to me. I could feel your body heat and it made me get goosebumps. As soon as I felt your hand palm my ass, I shuddered. I hadn't been touched in months. It excited me that the first guy to get their hands on me would be you.

Your zipper went down. It was a bit alarming how loud it was. I glanced back at you once again and scolded you about the noise. "...Sorry," you said, somewhat angry that I was being so bossy. No worries, though. I was looking forward to you taking it out on me.

I felt something supple and very warm against the crack of my ass. A moan escaped your lips. I knew that you were putting your dick on me. Like a cat, I leaned forward and relaxed my body, almost as if I was stretching. You pressed the head of your cock against my asshole.

"Can I fuck you this way?" you asked.

"Probably not. We don't have any lube and it'll take too long."

"But I really need to get inside this. I want my cum running out of you all day."

You didn't see me, but I smiled when you said that. Then I heard you suckle your finger. I felt the tickle of you pressing your finger against my asshole and then driving it inside me. It hurt.

I bit my lower lip in protest. Then you jammed another finger into my dripping slit. "Mmm..." you said, kind of laughing. "That's so fucking wet and nasty." A tear rolled down my cheek and onto the desk. It had been so long since anyone was inside me. I couldn't really handle the intensity of it.

Although I wasn't face-to-face with you, I could tell that you were jerking off. You grunted, then jammed both those fingers inside me with terrific force. You couldn't get deep enough. My hips intrinsically knew what to do; I grinded against your hand.

"Man, your pussy is so wet. God-damn!"

I closed my eyes. This wasn't my idea of double penetration, but it was a reasonable facsimilie.

Your hand grabbed the nape of my neck. Your strength was also unnerving to me. The way you handled me was always like a small child dangling a rag doll. Then you pulled your fingers out of me. I heard you suck them...

As you held me down, you jerked off onto my ass. The jacket from your three-piece suit kept brushing against my skin. I felt your sack graze my pussy lips. I reached down and began to masturbate. Your fingers dug into my neck with such excessive force that I thought you were trying to kill me.

You breathed through your nose aggressively. Then I heard you groan.

"I'm coming," you mumbled. "I'm gonna blast you, you fucking slut."

Your grip on my neck actually forced me, face down onto the desk. I felt you jerking at rapid-speed, then you gulped. At that moment, a warm squirt landed on my ass cheeks--shot clean across both of them.

Then you repositioned yourself and shot another wad of cum right down the length of my asshole.

The third blast, you mangaged to position on the small of my back. All three were steaming hot. They felt like acid burning through my flesh. With your dick still in hand, you smeared all that cream over my asshole.

Suddenly, you backed away from me. "Hurry up and put your dress down. Sounds like they're wrapping up. I need to get back down there."

Ah, yes...the meeting. The meeting in queston was going on, just a few feet away on the ground level of this loft space that we were working in.

The key players were my fuck buddy/boss and the other two Presidents of the company, as well as Gary Carter from Fremantle Media (the head guy responsible for American Idol), Ed Crasnick (the Emmy award winning comedy writer) and Cyndy Bohanovsky (a leading animator at Disney).

What made this even crazier was the fact that the business is a FAMILY MEDIA company, and the meeting we were skipping out on was to develop a religious cartoon for kids.(c.'06)

The Old Guy was an A-list client at this celebrity concierge service that I worked for a few years back. Everyone knows him. He IS the quintessential badass. Each morning at exactly 630am, I called his private line and delivered his wake up call. He'd offer up his gratitude each day by saying, "...and I thank you kindly."

I got to work late one day (funny, only because I lived within walking distance to my job). My boss, this gnarly old black woman that looked like Pooty Tang grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over into a corner. "Oh Shit," I thought. "She's on the rampage."

"What you know about computers?" she asked.

I stammered, "What--what do you--did the computer crash? Because they have tech support for that."

"No, Dummy!" she said. "That old man workin' on a project and they can't finish it 'cuz he don't know the first thang about no graphic designs."

Funny. Neither did I. I was a film person and usually we are very technologically savvy individuals. But I think I must be the one person on the planet who is an absolute dumb-ass when it comes to running graphics. Cameras--yes. Computers--not so much.

"Sure. I know graphic design." I lied. Hey, I'd do anything to get out of work. Besides, I never promised you a rose garden...

Pooty Tang ran over to the client board and grabbed the guy's card. She went to the copier and ran off his address, as well as the map and instructions to his house.

"Do what you gotta do, Little One. Just don't let me down. I'll tell 'em you on your way." And with that, she rushed me out of there.

The Old Guy lives in Beverly Park. This is the swanky gated community to the stars. I don't think there's a house in that place that sells for less than $10,000,000. I'd often been sent up there to various clients' houses to do anything that their crazy little minds could dream up: A certain action star from the 80's had me buy out the entire Barbie section at Toys R Us in Los Feliz because his girls wanted new dolls and his assistant Kevin was too embarrassed (I mean 'busy') to do it himself. Then there was the platinum selling folk singer from the 60's who often had us send those tacky Mrs. Beasley's baskets to all his mistresses. His wife--thirty years his junior was none the wiser. Hell, I was even sent into my own neighborhood of West Hollywood once to troll for ass because our client and super- lawyer to the stars wanted a late night booty call. "You know my type..." he said.

Yeah, right.

So this wasn't a very surprising request. In fact, it was quite normal. I drove up to the Mulholland gate and the security personnel phoned the compound. As soon I was recognized as legit, I continued up the long, winding hill to The Old Guy's house. As I drove, I really got nervous about meeting him face-to-face. He'd been having some problems with his career; it seems that old age was finally catching up with him as far as the roles he was being offered. The word from his staff was that he really resented having to play "Grandpa" and longed for the not-so-recently-passed days of playing the sexy lothario. While he was always polite to me, he just seemed to get a little sadder and sadder as the weeks went by.

I was met up the road by The Old Guy's "house woman." A lot of these A-listers have people who run their entire operation for them. They usually have more authority than a maid or a butler, and just a little bit less than a spouse. The Old Guy's lady had been with his family through the raising of his two adult children as well as the two younger ones. She even helped set up a trust fund for the illegitimate daughter he has living in New York. She flagged me down, and had me park on the street, just a skosh from the main house.

When I finally got to the main house, I saw piles of brightly colored t-shirts strewn about the floor. Housewoman explained to me that The Old Guy was trying to convert his art work to some t-shirts but couldn't. Then on top of that, his daughter who is a very prominent L.A. based artist would be showing a collection of her work, so she as well as her staff were too tied up to assist dear old dad.

No sooner did I get the run down before The Old Guy appeared. He was wearing a pale blue short sleeved shirt that was unbuttoned down to his Buddha belly, a pair of red bermuda shorts, some solid white flip-flops and a pair of reading glasses on his head. He was drinking a White Russian.

"This is the girl from the service..." said the housewoman. She picked up a newspaper and folded it, then tucked it under her arm for safekeeping. As she left, he asked me, "Now which one are you?"

"I'm the girl that gives you your wakeup calls." My voice cracked a litle bit when I said it. I was intimidated.

"Oh...so you're the party pooper?" he asked with a smile. Then he winked at me. "Well, young lady," he continued, "I've got a real situation on my hands, here. I gotta get these paintings on these t-shirts and I gotta do it in enough time to give 'em out as Christmas presents."

I smiled back. That wouldn't be much of a problem. Christmas was weeks away. And I knew some people. I got on the horn and put in a call to an acquaintance of mine that did the promotional t-shirts for my first film. I got the okay from The Old Guy and Dennis arrived about an hour later with his Mac and some samples.

When my boss called in to check on me, Housewoman apparently gave me a glowing progress report, because when she handed me the phone, Pooty Tang simply said, "You're doing great, Little One. Take the rest of the day off when you get done."

As I hung up the phone, I looked across the room and saw The Old Guy looking at me, grinning. Hmm...

Dennis left at about 5:45. He took the scads of tees, as well as a couple of The Old Guy's sketches back to his shop with him and said that he could have everything done in a couple of days. I began to follow suit, getting my things together to leave. That's when I felt a hand on my shoulder. In a hushed tone, The Old Guy whispered in my ear, "You...stay."

Housewoman's tone toward me soon went from polite and friendly to "Bitch, who do you think you are?!" I got the feeling that she had a thing for him and I was just another little tart or passing fancy getting in her way.

"He'd like you to stay for dinner," she said, squeezing it out as nicely as she could.

"Oh, no...that's okay. I've got food at home." Another lie. I'm the worst single person on the planet. My fridge stays empty. I'm a concubine to Ronald McDonald and the Burger King.

She leaned in close to me and barely forced a smile. "He'd like your company for dinner. I'm sure you can accomodate him. It's a fairly simple request."

She eyeballed me on her way out the room. Fuckin' L.A., man...

Dinner was served on the patio overlooking the Infinity pool. We both dined on Kobe steaks--his medium rare, mine well-done, risotto, carmelized carrots and washed it down with a 1997 McLaren Vale Australian Shiraz. Much better than Burger King...

After dinner, he decided to give me a tour of the entire property. We loaded up into his golf cart and took off. The Old Guy is a feisty old coot. His on-screen persona is a lot like the real him. I'd often wondered how someone...basically a senior citizen could end up bagging as many hot babes as he did. I mean, he's cute and all, but kind of in the same way a bulldog or pug is cute. The man was no Jeff Goldblum...

Far off in the distance, I could see Housewoman staring at us. The Old Guy seemed tickled by this. He commented, "Fucking with her head is like screwing other women in front of your wife; ill-advised, but fun nontheless." I laughed.

The sun was setting in the distance. As the tour of the grounds concluded, we pulled up to an electrical outlet and The Old Guy parked the car, then plugged it in so it could recharge.
"Whereabouts do you live, Kid?'

I told him that I'd just moved to West Hollywood about six months earlier. As we entered the main house, he told me of a young lady that he was seeing who lived just minutes away from where I do. I knew this girl. Around the office, we called her "Trouble."

Trouble was an actress that I'd liked as a kid. She was in some funny B-movies back in the 80's. However, somewhere in there, the bitch snapped and her crazy gene took over. She was now making a career on being a human train wreck. They'd been in the tabloids for stormy fights and jealous rants and all kinds of nonsense. I didn't get the two of them as a couple. I guess he thought she needed saving or something...

As soon as we walked inside, one of his younger kids ran up to him. "Daddy! Daddy!" He scooped her up and she planted a big sloppy kiss on his cheek. He introduced me to her. The kid didn't miss a beat: she asked, "Is she your new girlfriend?" The Old Guy awkwardly kissed her back, then put her down. She took off running into the next room. Housewoman entered and The Old Guy asked where his young son was. She told him that he was resting in his bedroom.

I took this as the perfect opportunity to put an end to the evening. It was fun, but I had a weird feeling and thought I should be heading home.

"I better be shovin' off," I said. He seemed a bit startled, but he nodded and instructed Housewoman that he would walk me out to my car and that she should put their phones "on service" so that he wouldn't miss any calls while he was gone. I snatched up my things and he led me to the door.

Outside, we strolled the grounds together. It really weirded me out that I was actually attracted to the guy. He was so charming and sweet. I was reminded of when I was a teenager in Louisiana and I used to go hiking with my best friend, Andy. The walk back to my car was romantic, in spite of itself.

I opened the driver's side door and chucked all of my gear onto the passenger's seat. When I turned back to The Old Guy, I saw him looking at me, a little uneasy. He began to dig his toes into the dirt next to my wheel and he was finding it hard to make eye contact with me. This was too good to be true. I think he was crushing on me.

"Well, Kid. It's been a good day with you," he said.

"Yeah, it has," I replied. He placed his hand gently on my arm, leaned in, and gave me a very warm kiss on the cheek. I was touched. So touched...that I kissed him back...on the lips...just a peck.

A peck that he returned with a much deeper kiss. The Old Guy pressed himself against me and we fell back against the car door. I threw my arms around him and let my lips travel down his neck. "Where'd you learn that trick?" he said. I stopped kissing him and looked him dead in the eyes: "You haven't even seen MY bag of tricks." We stood there, staring each other down.

He reached out and slipped his finger into the one of the belt loops of my skirt and pulled me near. He had that million dollar grin that he's famous for. I smirked, shaking my head at him. I thought to myself, "This is how they all fall for you..."

The Old Guy took my face in his hands and then moved in carefully. He tilted his head in one direction while positioning me in the opposite direction. We began to make out right there. He slipped his hand underneath my blouse. I was wearing a cream colored satin bra. His hand managed to find it's way past the fabric and underneath to my breast. He took my nipple between his two fingers and pulled it with just enough pressure to get me incredibly hot.

Then, just as I moved my hand down to the fly of his shorts, a set of headlights shot on in the distance. He quickly pulled away from me. I looked around, shaken up a bit. Was it the paparazzi? Do they really do shit like this? Like, lurk on the grounds of people's property? I'd never get the answer to that question, because it wasn't nosy photogs at all. It was Trouble. She'd been parked in her black Mercedes for hours after being tipped off about me by Housewoman, I guess. The Old Guy lowered his head like he'd just lost his dog. He looked at me and said, "I think you'd better go. She and I are having some problems and I don't want to make it any worse."

As I quickly hopped in my car to make a fast getaway, I could hear Trouble in the background, SCREAMING bloody murder! Oh, man...she gave people with Tourette Syndrome a serious run for their money. She started up her car, I guess in a vain attempt to cut me off so she could confront me face-to-face. But The Old Guy took off after her. I was able to make a clean escape. I drove home repeating to myself, "Don't shit where you eat...Don't-shit-where-you-eat."

The following afternoon when I showed up for work, all of my co-workers swarmed me. "Were you there when it happened? I heard someone say. Someone else tugged at my t-shirt and asked, "What did he do to make her snap?" I had no idea what anyone was talking about. Finally, Pooty Tang broke the news:

Shortly after I left, Trouble went home to her house and tried to buy the farm by taking a nap in her [running] Mercedes Benz. She'd left a note and everything. It was only cry for help, though. If she'd been really serious about dying, she would've done it in her garage and not in an open driveway. Housewoman had called the service to alert us to a heavy media presence surrounding The Old Guy and ordered us not to give out any information.

For the rest of the week, Trouble and The Old Guy, were the top story on Entertainment Tonight and E! Daily News.

Now, years later, I can't even believe that happened to me. It seems so surreal. I watched The Old Guy in one of his films just last week. I wished the best for him, and for her. Trouble, that is.

I even hear that they're dating again. (c.'06)

I made love the other morning. As he thrusted all of his weight into me, I felt his chest upon my skin. When I kissed his lips, I tasted sugar and it left me wanting more.

As I cocked my head back, dizzy from his touch I noticed the bouquet of black velvet roses that he'd bought for me the night before. The perfume of their scent filled the room. It was raining outside. I loved the noise it made as it beat down upon the fire escape. Although it was early in the day, the entire apartment was nearly dark; a casualty of the bad weather outside. But something about the dim lighting added a needed edge to the setting. Having met him such a short time before was a bizarre twist of fate.

And then I took his cock into my mouth. The taste of my pussy and his precum on my tongue was tart like alcohol. I sucked it harder and harder, just so I could have another taste. And another...His hands gripped my shoulders and his naked body pumped my mouth with growing intensity. I relaxed the back of my throat and let him have his way with me.

His hand lay flat on the bed. I placed my fingertips in his. The scent of sex took over and grew stronger and stronger.

His hand travelled the length of my thigh. It set me on fire. His technique was shy but clever. When he shot his cum down my throat, I drank it up without so much as an afterthought. I loved the way he tasted.

Under the music that was playing, I could hear the autumn wind blowing through the trees. I loved everything about fucking him.

I just wish I could remember his name. (c.'06)

The house we're in is located in Encino, CA. It's just a stones throw from Balboa Park. Normally, I don't do the Valley. But for you, I'd go to the moon and back...

We're standing in the kitchen. The roommates are gone. The entire house is dark and empty. You lock the door behind us. I stand just a few feet away from you. I'm wearing a black trench coat and a pair of 6-inch black heels. The moment you turn to face me, I drop the coat. Now all I'm wearing are the shoes, a gold belly chain and an orchid choker...

You are floored.

I walk over to you, slowly. I take your hand and place it on the small of my back. I look you dead in those brown eyes of yours as I press myself against you. Your cock is hard and the outline is bold against your jeans. I can feel it practically stabbing me against my thigh. I lean in and can smell you. I don't know what you're wearing but you smell like a million bucks. You've got a bit of a five o'clock shadow--I love that. And you're smiling at me like you're the happiest guy on earth.

So, I kiss you. I put my lips to yours and feel your tongue go in my mouth. Suddenly, I am Anais Nin...

Your hands move down to my ass; you grab a handful and pull me in even closer. Then without warning, you pick me up and carry me out of there. Through the living room down the hallway past the bathroom to your bedroom--everything's a blur.

We fall onto the bed, with you on top of me. You try to break away, but I keep my grip on you. I'm still hungry...

I start to kiss your neck. You laugh. "Hey, I just wanna close the blinds."

"Leave 'em open," I say as I take your lip into my mouth. "I want all your neighbors to see me get fucked."

"Then at least let me make it interesting and turn on the lights."

You pry yourself away and walk over to the lamp near your desk and turn it on. I watch as you take off your sweater, then your favorite t-shirt---The MC5 one--leaving just your pants on. As I take off my choker, I watch you make the moment perfect. First love, man...I don't think I've ever liked anyone as much as I like you. You get my jokes, you like old SNL reruns, Elvis Costello, and ice cream. You are literally the perfect guy and I couldn't be luckier.

I think these things as you make your way back over to me. Once you join me on the bed, I trace little circles around your nipple with my tongue. I can feel you watching me as I do it. You delicately run your fingers back and forth over my arm. You're wearing a big silver belt buckle. It's in my way. Your pants are in my way. I want you in my mouth.

"Let me blow you."

I look up and you're grinning at me. Then you lean back, supporting your weight with your right arm. You watch as I undo the buckle and the 5 buttons on your fly. Your cock is right there, ready for me. Before I can get it out, I lick the tip of it as it rests against your stomach. Your breathing gets heavier. You whisper, "Fuck..." under your breath. I watch as you lay back for a second to get your pants down, then return to your previous position. I grip your dick at the base and I open wide while looking up at you. With zero hesitation, I take your fat cock into my mouth and completely down my throat in one fell swoop.

Your head gently rolls back and your stomach starts heaving as I work my magic. I'm on my knees in between your legs. I'm jerking you off into my mouth. My hands are tiny and they make your dick look even more amazing than it already is. I'm wild about your body. I bury my nose against your balls and take in the smell...then I take both your nuts into my mouth.

"...please...God...I fucking love you so much..."

Your voice has me so turned on. You're always saying the sweetest things to me in bed. But you won't talk dirty to me. I want SO BADLY for you to tell me that I'm a little slut for your cock, but you're too nice for that. So I will gladly assume the role of the "dirty one" and act superfreak enough for us both.


You're fucking my face sooooo deep. I press my finger against my clit, but I can't even get myself off, because it's too wet and the finger keeps slipping.

"Climb on top of me. I need to eat you out."

69--my favorite number. I mount you, but hesitate taking you back in because your breath against my cunt is too much. Then I feel those soft, full lips brush up against me. Your tongue is hot as you shove it inside me. If I don't suck your dick immediately, I fear that I'll scream my head off. My mouth engulfs you and we're off. This is more than just head. I can feel your skin on mine. I begin to work up at sweat on top of you. You suck my swollen clit, tickling the hood with your tongue. I can't handle it. Within minutes, you give me one of the most intense orgasms I've ever had.

I pull you out of my mouth and jerk you off until you cum, shooting a thick gooey load right in my face. I love being your cumwhore. It's an honor...

Or at least it was...

...until you dumped me.

...2 days later.

...on CHRISTMAS EVE?!?!.

Yeah...

I guess that's what I get for dating a Jew...(c.'06)

I'm in bed with the DJ. He's tall and thin (my friends call him 'Gollum' behind his back). But even though he's not the "prettiest" guy I've ever been with, he DID fix my garbage disposal...

It's a Sunday night. The video for "Dry the Rain" by the Beta Band comes on. I can't believe they've broken up. Sad. I really loved them. I tell the DJ the story about my first Coachella: How Patrick Park--Addy's ex-husband--hooked us up with tickets and VIP passes and we sat under a palm tree getting fucked up on Mike's Hard Lemonade with Rich and Steve from the Beta Band.

He doesn't really seem that interested. He offers me a hit of his best sticky. I decline. I really wish he would stop dealing drugs on the side. That's all I need: to be left holding HIS "smoking gun" during a drug bust or some such nonsense. He and I aren't doing so well together. We've already broken up twice--once at Real Food Daily on La Cienega and again on the Sony Pictures lot in Culver City.

...But right now, he is peaceful. He is blissed out. We're in bed early so that he can get up in the morning and lay down some beats for this rapper he's producing. But I'm sure he won't mind getting me off. Afterall, I just blew him.

"Baby, will you eat my pussy?" I snuggle up beside him and give him a little peck on his forehead.

He looks at me and starts laughing. Then his phone--that goddamned Sidekick--starts sing-songing on the floor by the bed. He picks it up.

"Speak, nigga..."

This sounds like "business." Yeah...this could be a while. I decide not to wait on him. I take matters into my own hands. Reaching over him, I retrieve this old Cuban Cohiba cigar box from the nightstand. He seems unfazed by me. I return to my spot on the bed. Then I open the box. Inside is the only thing i love more than him: The Rabbit. I plug it into the outlet. Then I turn it on. He shoots me the dirtiest look.

"Yo, DO-YOU-MIND?" He has his hand over the phone, and I can still hear the person on the other end of the line rambling.

I refuse to respond. I'm not at all deaf, I'm just ignoring him. I touch the vibrating head to my clit. It sends an IMMEDIATE tingle up the length of my body. My objective is not to romance myself. I just want to get off...

I lick my lips. Jesus Christ! This thing feels so good. My pussy is totally wet right now! I slide it up and down the length of my snatch. Its vibrations tap-tap-tapping against my hungry hole like beats-per-minute in a song.

I look at the DJ, just as I slide the thing inside me. My pussy walls constrict around the dick. It's going to happen quicker than I expected because I'm so fucking horny right now, it's not even funny.

I close my eyes and fantasize that I'm getting gang-banged by five of the beefiest motherfuckers I can get my hands on. I have one in my mouth, pumping my throat. Another is in my pussy slamming me so hard that you can actually hear his dick sloshing around inside me. The third guy is in my ass, but I'm so tight that he blows his load in me, which leaves me ready to get fucked by either of the two leftover.

The Rabbit's head is swirling around in me. The DJ struggles to loosen the bed linen's grip from his body, then he storms off into the kitchen. Fucking coward...

My nipples stand at attention. "Yeah," I think to myself, "This is some real good pussy between my legs." I'm fucking myself better than anybody ever has and better than anybody ever will. I imagine how hot it would be to fuck a handsome father and his teenage son at the same time. I tell myself that I'm going to start an afternoon swinger's club with nothing but married men who aren't getting it good at home and want to take turns in this tight little muff. Yeah...that's hot. I think about being the cream puff in a circle jerk and actually picture myself lying on a dirty floor in somebody's apartment as twelve guys I don't know shoot jizz all-fucking-over-my-body!!

Mmm...That's right. What I wouldn't give to have that lazy motherfucker in there park his little ass on my face. Yeah...Let my tongue go up that hungry little shithole when--

Unnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!! My body goes into wild convulsions. My ass has lifted inches...literally inches off the bed. The Rabbit is beating my clit with no mercy whatsoever. The flesh feels as though it's melting off my bones. My pussy twitches and twitches in waves. And they just keep happening...each one stronger than the last.

The DJ pokes his head through the beaded curtains on the kitchen door. He looks at me, intrigued. His expression is that of someone who's trying not to watch the crappy movie on TV, but manages to get sucked in anyway.

With the vibrator still buzzing next to me, I drift off to sleep to the sound of the Beta Band singing, "...I will be all right. I will be all right. I will be all right..." (c.'06)

The last time I was in France was when I was 17. My high school had a two-week foreign exchange program with a school in Chateauroux. The host family I was partnered with was the Lhertiers.

The Lhertiers had a daughter who was my age named Marie. She was a knockout. Marie was the spitting image of Patsy Kensit from the film Twenty-One. She always wore fire engine red lipstick and had the style of someone who worked for a fashion designer and got free clothes all the time. The girl was high class.

Marie had three boyfriends: the first, Denis was a film student at the International University. He was a renegade who looked like Adrock from the Beastie Boys. The second was a preppy guy named Sylvain who bore a striking resemblance to James Dean. And the third was Davy. Davy looked like Jason Lewis from Sex and the City.

What struck me as odd was how open-minded the french are in the way they rear their children. Marie was not only allowed to be sexually active in her home, but her parents were not at all particular about her having her boyfriends sleepover. My mom wouldn't even let me have boys over to the house to study.

During the course of my two-week stay, Marie entertained both Denis and Sylvain respectively. The family had me bunked out in the spare bedroom, located just an open spiral staircase above Marie's bedroom. I could hear everything that went on down there. She liked to be spanked; she also liked to give head. This, I discerned from the constant slurping noises wafting up from her bed.

When it was Davy's turn to sleep over, he and Marie got into a really bad argument. He was on winter break from college so he had no other choice but to stay with the family. I fell asleep to the sound of their teenage bitchfest, "en francais."

I awakened at around 3am to the sight of Davy sitting at the edge of my bed. He was wearing a Doors t-shirt and a pair of soft yellow boxer shorts. He had his cock in his right hand and was beating off. The sheet that covered my body to keep me warm had been pulled all the way down to my shins.

I looked at him, startled. He saw the fear in my eyes, so before I could scream or freak out, he put his finger to his lips and shushed me. Then he continued to abuse his cock.

I felt Davy's hand on my thigh. He very carefully pushed up my night shirt. I watched him, almost paralyzed. I didn't know what to do. On the one hand, I was terrified. On the other hand, he was hot and I liked it.

His breathing was erratic. The room was still and pitch-dark with just a flare of light from a street lamp streaking across Davy's face. He moved up closer to me and continued to stroke himself. I felt him slide his other hand all the way up my shirt; the shock of his cold skin against mine made me jump a bit. He cupped my left breast.

He exposed my tits to the chilly night air by yanking my shirt all the way up to my neck. I'd never been naked in front of anyone. I was a virgin.

Each of his breaths grew heavier and heavier. Then, without warning, I felt something warm and wet hit my stomach and then my breasts. It felt like raindrops. Davy inhaled sharply through his nose. He whispered to himself, "Merde..." Then he took his free hand and ran it over my chest and my torso, rubbing his cum into my skin.

Davy removed his t-shirt and wiped his hands, then wiped me clean. Without saying a word to me, he grabbed the shirt and crept right back out of the bedroom, sneaking downstairs to be with Marie.

Months later, in a letter written to me by Marie, there was a picture enclosed. It is of Davy sitting in Cafe L'Europe--the local hangout. I took it the day I met him.

She went on to tell me that Davy had been killed in a car crash just outside of Orleans.

I still have the photo. I keep it as a bookmark in my favorite collection of poems by Charles Bukowski. (c.'06)

We got to the bar late that night around 1140p. I really loved hanging out with this group of friends because they knew all the trendy but underground night spots in town. When the doors swung open, I could hear "Got Yo' Money" by Ol Dirty Bastard pumping energy into the entire place. Walking through that dive, I felt the same sex charged thrill that I imagine people must have felt walking into Studio 54 for the first time. The atmosphere was really seedy. The lights inside were bordello red and made the place seem like it oozed sin.

As I passed the first doorway overlooking the dancefloor, I saw debauchery at its finest. The room was packed with bodies grinding in unison. But there was one body that my friends and I fixed on that made each of us take notice. There, in front of the DJ table, dancing on a big speaker was a boy. He stood about 5'9 and had brown hair that was all "skater bangs," thick black Buddy Holly glasses, a red and white ringer tee, faded jeans and thick black boots. I can't quite put my finger on what it was about it him; all I know is that as soon as we saw him, we ALL stopped in our tracks. The kid had moves. Just picture a hot Napolean Dynamite dancing at the assembly--only instead of being funny, he was sexy.

The rest of that evening is a fog to me. All I remember is that guy...the indie rock "Go-Go Boy."

The next week, we went back. Only this time, instead of our regular troop consisting of Addy, Matthew, and Winkelman, we had a couple of girls that Addy knew from work with us. I had a hidden agenda of looking for Go-Go Boy. As we fought our way onto the dancefloor, I discovered him a few feet away, hanging with a blonde girl just a hair taller that he was. Everyone knew I was hot for him and they all pushed me to ask him to dance. "I can't do that," I said. "I'm shy." "Like hell you are!" was Matthew's response, and he dragged me by the arm over to where Go-Go Boy was.

I finally mustered up the courage and began to bump and grind against him when his back was turned. As soon as his friend tipped him off to what I was doing behind his back, he gladly put his arm around my waist and dug his pelvis into mine. HOLY SHIT!!!! It was happening...

At 2 am, as all the dirty indies poured out of the bar and onto the street, I was still beaming from my nasty little freak fest on the dancefloor. I stood, making small-talk with one of our satellite friends when all of a sudden, Go-Go Boy made his way over to us. He reached out his hand and softly tapped me, saying in passing, "I really enjoyed dancing with you. It aroused me to no end." And then he walked away. Just like that. A hit and run. The girls giggled and encouraged me to go after him. "He's obviously into you," said Shannon. "You better go get him before he goes home with someone else. That was an invite!" But I just didn't have the courage. Instead, I looked on as he and his friends disappeared down Sunset Blvd..

For the rest of the week, all I could hear was a mash-up in my head of Shannon telling me to get my man, and Go-Go Boy's hot little verbal invite. It played over and over in my mind. I realized what a HUGE mistake I'd made by not striking while the iron was hot, so I called up the gang and organized a little trip to go clubbing. But when we got to the bar, he wasn't there. Not that week or the week after...

Then one night...

I was at Spaceland with Matthew and Michelle checking out Addy's new boyfriend's band, The Silversun Pickups. This was back when they were doing their residency there. Addy flitted around the joint until finally she saw me standing in the front row. She ran up to me, "I have to talk to you!" Addy grabbed me by my arm and pulled me over toward the bathroom. "Guess who your guy is related to?" Uh-oh...the guess-who of starfucking? I love this game... She went on to tell me that Go-Go Boy was the kid brother of a very accomplished and established L.A. based singer-songwriter. The brother was in a 70's retro band in the early 90's that rivaled The Black Crowes and Redd Kross. Then, she told me his name...I shivered when I heard it.

"Are you having any luck finding him?" she asked, looking at me sympathetically. "Nope," I said. Then we both turned back to the stage.

Now, I am a very determined girl when I want to be and it just didn't sit well with me that I'd managed to let a choice piece of ass like this one slip through the cracks. I had a plan. I exacted a little reconn work. I used this special weapon--a little something called "411"--and found out Go-Go Boy's phone number and address.

I was still a bit too shy to just call him up. I wanted to seduce him a little bit. So I wrote him a letter. It read, "Dear Go-Go Boy. You and I hang out at the same bar in Echo Park. I see you dancing all the time on the DJ's table and...I was just wondering how I could get you into my life sexually. Call me and let me know. Sincerely, Your Secret Admirer." I mailed it out with my phone number Monday night.

10:43 am Wednesday morning my phone rang. I knew it was him. I jumped around and screamed as he left a message on my machine. His voice was timid and a little bit dopey. He seemed really leery, but also very intrigued. I figured I'd call him back later. So on my lunch break, I crossed the street and walked over to the pay phone at Starbucks on Melrose. I called him up. Our conversation was really good. I found out that he was a storyboard artist. He was one of many artists working on the film version of Scooby-Doo. He would later go on to story-boarding numerous films including one of the finest stoner movies ever made. Yep, he may have been the brother of a famous musician, but he was pretty accomplished in his own rite. He was desperately trying to figure out who I was but I wouldn't give up the ghost. Instead I played it cool. So cool, that he just couldn't stand it anymore and made plans to meet me at a little dive bar on Fairfax at 8p the following night.

I went all out for this date. This was the first time I'd be spending time with someone that truly got me hot just by looking at him. I put on my brand new dress that I'd bought just for this moment and drove across town to see him. When I walked in, he was sitting at the bar wearing a thick red sweater. His back was turned to me. The place was packed but he'd managed to keep the barstool next to him empty. "That one's for me, " I thought. I approached him. My heart was pounding. It was god-awful. I slipped in quietly then sat down on the uninhabited chair. Then I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned to me. It took him a minute to place where he knew me from, but then I noticed a twinkle in his eye. We had lift-off...

For the next couple of hours, Go-Go Boy and I talked about everything. I found out that he is the son of a Pepperdine University professor. His sister is a prominent Bay-area chef and of course his brother was the object of my pre-teen lust. He was 26. 26...I'd never been with someone that age before. He was bright and funny and articulate, and a bit nervous in his skin. But he was so fascinating to me. When the conversation soon turned to sex, I got so excited. "Finally..." I thought.

Things heated up between the two of us rather quickly. We began kissing at the bar and I suggested that we get out of there and go back to his place. While walking down Fairfax back to his car we stopped in front of a bank and started to really make out. His lips were like fire; he kissed like a high school whore that wants acceptance from boys. He lifted me slightly off the ground, while holding my hands slightly behind my back. He meant business.

He started up his car. I sat sideways nibbling his earlobe as he struggled to concentrate on putting the car into "drive." He gave me a quick kiss and then fired up the ignition. Go-Go Boy lived in Los Feliz on Edgemont; we were in the Fairfax district. I figured that was much too much time to be stuck making small talk. I took matters into my own hands by undoing my seat belt. "Have you ever gotten 'road-head' before?" I asked. He nearly gulped. Very stoic and with his eyes planted on the road he replied, "Uh, no. I mean I've heard about it, but--" I didn't need an explanation. I unzipped his pants and reached into his fly. His dick was good and rigid. It wasn't big like my last boyfriend's but when I looked at it, it sure was adorable!

I sucked that poor boys dick through four neighborhoods: West Hollywood, Hancock Park, Larchmont Village, and Hollywood. His cum was so sweet. I just couldn't get enough. As I worked him over, I heard him say, "Fuck this. I'm stopping somewhere so I can fuck you." Pulling rank with me? I like that. As I continued to suck him, I felt the car come to a halt. "Get up here," he said. I lifted my head and looked around. We were somewhere in Little Armenia. I grabbed a Trojan from my purse and slapped that bad boy onto his dick, then I mounted him. When I slid down on his cock, I thought I would pass out. He lifted up my dress. I remember: I was wearing a red lace bra. He didn't even notice; within seconds my tits were popped out of the thing and he was sucking my nipples while I rode him. We made his little car rock back and forth on that street. Our hot breath steamed up the windows and his glasses. Go-Go Boy had his brother's good looks. Both of them have incredibly full lips. I enjoyed nibbling on his as so many guys had done to me before. The smell of alcohol on his breath turned me on. I fucked him with everything I had.

As he gripped my ass and watched my tits bounce up and down, he trembled from the cold outside. He closed his eyes. I leaned in and kissed his eyelids. He smiled. Two old black guys in Adidas track suits passed by on the street outside. We could hear them laughing at us as they looked on at the car rocking back and forth. I leaned into him because my head kept hitting the roof of the interior cabin.

"We need to stop." "Why?" I said, running my tongue over his lips. "I wanna get you home and fuck you the right way." I was in no position to argue with the man. I climbed off his dick and took to the passenger's seat. He started up the car and we hauled ass until we finally got to his place.

We kissed our way up the stairs to his floor. As he rushed to find the correct key, I stuck my hand down the back of his pants and played with his butt. The door swung open and he pulled me inside the apartment and locked us in. Things got really nasty from here...

He led me into the bedroom. We ripped each other's clothes off as fast as we could while tongue kissing. There was a little sink and a big wall mounted mirror in the far right-hand corner. Go-Go Boy bent me over the sink and as we watched ourselves, he pounded my cunt with absolutely no mercy. He reached underneath me and fingered my clit. He looked so determined...

You know when someone says something so funny that you can hardly get the laugh out? Well, that's what is was like for us. We were so horny...so hot...that we couldn't fuck each other hard enough. He screamed then plunged into me. "Fuck! I wanna do you on the bed." We fumbled toward his bed which was big and unmade. He literally threw me down onto the thing. He climbed on top of me and I wrapped my legs around his hips as he jackhammered my cunt with his cock.

This lasted for just a few minutes. Then he told me, "Get on top of me, so I can see you." We switched positions. I took his dick in my juicy little hole and rode him hard. I made him suck my fingers. I told him that I'd been dreaming about fucking his ass like this all week. He just couldn't handle it anymore. He came.

It took him less than 15 minutes to get hard again. This time he wanted my ass. Go-Go Boy made me get down on all fours. He spread my ass cheeks apart. I felt him blowing a little bit of air on my crack. Then he buried his face in it and ate me. His tongue was relaxing. It was warm and stiff as it penetrated me.

He laid down on his back and I sat down on his dick as he watched me. I can remember his face. He looked almost disgusted that I was able to ride him like this. My asshole started to throb, which sucked his dick in even farther. The friction of it hurt liked hell. I began to punch his chest. There was no remaining cool here. His dick ripped my black ass up!

My ass got the rest of his jizz. We lay there, spent and dizzy. Every square inch of my body was relaxed and on fire at the same time. As I kissed his neck, I heard him say, "I could go again, if you want?" What the hell was this guy on?! I told him that I was raw and couldn't do anymore. All-in-all, it was a four condom, five star night.

The next day as he drove me back to my car, he told me that he could really see himself caring for me. According to him, he didn't just want this to be a random hookup.

Turns out, he was NOT a man of his word. I never saw him again. © 2006.

I used to fuck this guy named Mike when I lived in New York. I was 20, he was 22. Mike was a film major at SUNY Purchase. His idols were David Cronenberg and David Lynch. Mike was a very dark fellow. But I really liked that about him. He was 6'1, had brown hair and green eyes and one of the sickest bodies I've ever had the pleasure of laying underneath...

One day at the Angelika, while watching the latest Ewan McGregor film, I leaned over and started sucking Mike's cock. He, to date, is in my top 3 of biggest dicks. I'd say he was about 9 inches and incredibly thick with a huge round knob of a head. Sucking him off was always a feat, but it was one that I endured, blissfully.

As the love scene unfolded, Mike jammed all nine of those inches down my throat.

Finally after a few minutes, he came.

I had to get up and go to the restroom to pee and get myself off because he wouldn't be able to do me properly in those seats. I rushed out of our theatre and was about to head into the restrooms when I spotted Eric Bogosian. Bogosian is one of my ALL-TIME favorite playwrights. I think the guy is a fucking genius.

So I go over to him. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. I said, "Hi. I'm super sorry to bother you, but I just really admire your work. I saw both the play and the film versions of Suburbia and I've performed in a local production of Talk Radio. You are by far the best--"

Midsentence, he just rolls his eyes and walks away.

At this point, I'm somewhat offended because this guy was one of my idols at the time and I thought he was the shit and found it a little bit tacky that he would diss a fan like that.

But screw him! Nobody needs his skanky ass no way! I went to the restroom. As I neared the first stall, I just happened to glance at myself in the mirror...Turns out, Bogosian wasn't being mean at all.

It's just that I had a big wad of Mike's cum in my hair and on the side of my face. (c.'06)