Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Razzy and Razzy's ass attempt to be mature, then fail miserably
Last night I went out for drinks with my old friend and former lover the R-uh. I met him back when I worked in Seattle. He worked for another biotech company in the same building as ours, and he was impossible for me to ignore. He is a 6'5" tall and smoking hot, and for a year I referred to him as "that hot black guy who works upstairs." Finally, he hit on one of my co-workers at the Starbucks down the street from our office, and she invited him to drinks one night when I would be there so she could bail easily if he turned out to be weird. He did not turn out to be weird, but he didn't turn out to be her type either. However, he and I immediately hit it off. First we started talking about football. Then, we exchanged a flurry of e-mails that started off about Raiders owner Al Davis and covered every topic imaginable, from Hunter S. Thompson to Catholic school to his penis size to how I had the hottest ass in our office building. Then we went on a couple of casual coffee and lunch dates. Then, one night, we decided to meet for drinks in Tacoma, so he drove down, we had a couple, and totally went back to my crib and stayed up all night doing it and doing it and doing it WELL.
I was smitten, but the R-uh isn't one to be tied down. He was more elusive yet tittilating than a heavily war-painted woman in a Duran Duran video. He always had a zillion reasons not to go to his place, it took 6 months for him to give me a non-work number where I could reach him, he would always call me from his friends' phones at weird hours, one day he'd take me on what could be construed as a "date" and the next he wouldn't return my calls, etc. I suspected that he had a girlfriend, although he swears this wasn't the case. In any event, we never established an official BF/GF-type relationship. However, we did establish a hot sex-based relationship that lasted pretty much until I left for New York. In fact, our sexcapades became famous with our respective groups of co-worker friends. There was a vacant office building attached to the building we worked in, and we would sneak over there during work and bang in this private office on the fifth floor. It became so routine and familiar that all we had to do when we felt like getting some mid-workday action was send a quick e-mail saying "5th floor? 5 minutes?" and it was on. As the R-uh pointed out, it was like something out of a ridiculous (and by ridiculous, I mean awesome) porn: this towering black dude pounding a petite blonde bent over a desk with their business attire strewn all over the empty bookshelves. Like I said, I was sort of smitten.
When I moved to New York, I intended to wash my hands of the R-uh, since I was sick of dealing with the issues involved in communicating with him, and I'm not really into phone sex (and since he never answered his phone anyway, this wasn't even an option). However, he then sent me a card informing me that he loved me, which served to shock the living shit out of me. After several e-mails processing precisely what he meant by that, I decided that I would continue to call him when I'd take trips to the P-N-Dub.
During my trip home the Christmas before last, the R-uh confessed to me that he did have a girlfriend. Of course, we ended up screwing anyway, because we can't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't know his girlfriend. As I have stated before, I don't really have a problem fucking guys with girlfriends, because as far as I am concerned, their relationships are their business unless the girlfriend in question is a friend of mine. By this logic, I would find it morally reprehensible to fuck (for example) MillerTime or Miss Corbutt's boyfriends, but not problematic to fuck the R-uh. I didn't think much of R-uh's girlfriend situation until he sent me an e-mail 6 or 7 months later in which he mentioned that said girlfriend was pregnant with his kid. Then, a few more months later, he sent me pictures of his son, who even as a tiny infant had the same mischievious sparkle in his eyes as his old man. I can only imagine what kind of smooth-talking game-spitter that little rascal is going to grow up to be.
I went out for drinks with the R-uh last Christmas during my trip home, and we just talked. In addition to being a hot lay (one of the hottest, in my not-so-limited experience), the R-uh is smart, witty, well-read, and interesting, yet another reason I like him so much. We kissed a little, but managed to restrain ourselves. However, then we started sending each other progressively more sexual text messages, along the lines of "Raz, when can we get together so I can worship that ass?" and made plans to get back to our old tricks. I agreed, but then backed out on the night in question, as I got a case of guiltiness about his baby mama and kid. I told him that I couldn't interfere with his family, and that this was different than just some random chick he was dating, and that we couldn't do it. He understood. A six month radio silence ensued.
Shortly before the P-N-Dub trip that I'm currently on, he called me out of the blue to chat. I thought, hell, we can be mature enough to get together for drinks. After all, it's established that whatever our sexual status, we do care about each other, and enjoy each other's company. So I called him and made plans to meet up last night in the sprawling metropolis of Renton, where he lives, in spite of our misgivings about our respective abilities to behave ourselves. This was our conversation, verbatim:
The R-uh: "Raz, I don't know if we can do this, because the second I see you I'm going to want to just hit that hot pussy."
Razzy: "Shit, I know. That would fucking rule. BUT, DAMMIT, WE CAN'T."
The R-uh: "No, we can't."
:::silence:::
Razzy: "Well, we're both adults. We can be mature enough to handle a couple drinks in a public place."
The R-uh: "I know, we'll keep things platonic. We can definitely be mature about this. We'll be okay."
I planned to wear the relatively unflattering wife beater-flood pant-flip flop combo I'd been rocking all day to be extra non-sexual, but at the last minute thought better of it. I dislike the idea of showing up to meet one of the hottest lays of my life looking like an unkempt Smith girl, so I threw on a very short, very tight halter dress, a pair of four-inch heels, and did my eye makeup. I'm still exuding "non-sexual" by forgoing the cocksucker red lipgloss...right?
Anyway, I showed up in Renton and discovered that the bar scene there is LAME. The main attraction in Renton is--I shit you not--the IKEA that is there. There is literally a sign on the freeway to Renton that identifies IKEA as a "tourist activity." Because Renton has such a piss-poor showing for its nightlife, we ended up at Freddie's Club, this shitty casino. We started off talking about football, George Bush, the decline and fall of our former employers, my career ideas post-grad school, R. Kelly's genius despite his pederast tendencies, and a host of other interesting but relatively platonic topics. However, I was hitting the Johnnie Walker, and he was drinking Maker's Mark, and even though we eventually switched to beer, the alcohol quickly steered things down a not-so-platonic path. I drove him back to his car, and we were making out, and after I established there was no way in hell I was going to exchange oral in the backseat of my mom's car, we talked ourselves into getting a shitty motel room.
Somehow we ended up at this place called the Renton Inn, which is NOT a particularly upscale establishment. The ancient Vietnamese desk clerk kept saying, "King size room vellllly expensive, queen size ten dollar cheaper." The R-uh jokingly pretended to think it over, much to my amusement, while the desk clerk was eyeing my dress suspiciously and surmising (I'm pretty sure) that I was a prostitute. I was tempted to ask the clerk if the hotel had hourly rates, but decided to at least make him think I was an escort, which seems a little classier than your average street hooker. Then the R-uh announced roguishly that he was feeling spendy and would shell out for the king. The clerk gave us a room key and a booklet of more Renton tourist attractions, which we leafed through in the elevator on the way to the room. Of course, IKEA was mentioned, as were Renton's many car dealerships and half of the shitty restaurants on the strip outside of the Sea-Tac airport. My next vacation is DEFINITELY going to be spent in Renton.
Five minutes later, we were disrobed, talking dirty, and making sure that we got the R-uh's extra $10 worth by utilizing every last square inch of that king sized bed. After the R-uh did the job for me a couple times, he made a request. He wanted to go anal. Now, I'm not squeamish about anal sex. I've done it a number of times, but to be honest it's not my favorite thing. For one thing, it doesn't really do much for me other than make me feel like a giving, generous person for satisfying my partner. For another, it's often somewhat painful, especially with a well-endowed man like the R-uh (he's Magnum material). I said, "I don't know, dude, we don't have any lube, and I wasn't really planning on it."
Another reason I'm not the world's biggest fan of anal sex is that the reality of this act is, frankly, pretty fucking disgusting. At the risk of seeming even less feminine and classy than I already do, when I'm anticipating giving a guy some backdoor action, I usually like to take a shit beforehand just to minimize the grossout factor. Girls (myself included) are usually embarrassed when they fart in front of guys or do something to indicate that they have a functioning colon. I don't know why girls are like this, because everyone has an asshole, but it's just instinct for us to be a little shy about those particular aspects of our physiology. That is what I meant when I said "I wasn't really planning on it." The R-uh got my meaning, and said that he didn't care, and wasn't going to give it to me to the hilt anyway. Finally, he wore me down and I obliged.
It's been a while since I've had anal sex, and especially a while since I've had it with someone packing a dick like the R-uh's. I felt like someone had shoved the pole of a parking meter up my ass. Like a good soldier, however, I just bit my lip and tried not to be sarcastic when the R-uh asked if I liked it. "Yeah...it's great," I said, wincing. "Hurry up," I urged. Normally I encourage guys to take their time, but in this case, I didn't think he could blow his load fast enough.
When it was over, I didn't even bother to light up a postcoital cigarette. I could tell that this was one of those particularly gross anal sex situations, so I grabbed him and dragged him off to the shower, mortified at what can only be described as a literally shitty situation. "Whoa, Raz," he said. "What's the deal?"
"I'm not into scat play," I responded semi-jokingly, while vigorously soaping the two of us down. "Not that I can really be too coquettish about this, but I'd hate to ruin your image of me as a demure flower of a lady."
"Is she okay?" he asked, gesturing to my nether regions.
"She's fine," I said, indicating my vagina. "Her dirtier counterpart is...well, let's just say I'm going to be sitting pretty gingerly for the next day or so."
Not to say that the sex was horrible; in fact, quite the contrary. As usual, the pre-anal action was borderline phenomenal, and even though the backdoor stuff was slightly painful and gross, the R-uh is just extremely proficient at pushing my buttons. As I drove home around 3 a.m., I thought about how my ass gets me into trouble in SO many ways. In this case, it has thwarted my attempts to be either mature or dignified. My ass is my best friend and my worst enemy. Damn that ass!
I was smitten, but the R-uh isn't one to be tied down. He was more elusive yet tittilating than a heavily war-painted woman in a Duran Duran video. He always had a zillion reasons not to go to his place, it took 6 months for him to give me a non-work number where I could reach him, he would always call me from his friends' phones at weird hours, one day he'd take me on what could be construed as a "date" and the next he wouldn't return my calls, etc. I suspected that he had a girlfriend, although he swears this wasn't the case. In any event, we never established an official BF/GF-type relationship. However, we did establish a hot sex-based relationship that lasted pretty much until I left for New York. In fact, our sexcapades became famous with our respective groups of co-worker friends. There was a vacant office building attached to the building we worked in, and we would sneak over there during work and bang in this private office on the fifth floor. It became so routine and familiar that all we had to do when we felt like getting some mid-workday action was send a quick e-mail saying "5th floor? 5 minutes?" and it was on. As the R-uh pointed out, it was like something out of a ridiculous (and by ridiculous, I mean awesome) porn: this towering black dude pounding a petite blonde bent over a desk with their business attire strewn all over the empty bookshelves. Like I said, I was sort of smitten.
When I moved to New York, I intended to wash my hands of the R-uh, since I was sick of dealing with the issues involved in communicating with him, and I'm not really into phone sex (and since he never answered his phone anyway, this wasn't even an option). However, he then sent me a card informing me that he loved me, which served to shock the living shit out of me. After several e-mails processing precisely what he meant by that, I decided that I would continue to call him when I'd take trips to the P-N-Dub.
During my trip home the Christmas before last, the R-uh confessed to me that he did have a girlfriend. Of course, we ended up screwing anyway, because we can't keep our hands off each other, and I didn't know his girlfriend. As I have stated before, I don't really have a problem fucking guys with girlfriends, because as far as I am concerned, their relationships are their business unless the girlfriend in question is a friend of mine. By this logic, I would find it morally reprehensible to fuck (for example) MillerTime or Miss Corbutt's boyfriends, but not problematic to fuck the R-uh. I didn't think much of R-uh's girlfriend situation until he sent me an e-mail 6 or 7 months later in which he mentioned that said girlfriend was pregnant with his kid. Then, a few more months later, he sent me pictures of his son, who even as a tiny infant had the same mischievious sparkle in his eyes as his old man. I can only imagine what kind of smooth-talking game-spitter that little rascal is going to grow up to be.
I went out for drinks with the R-uh last Christmas during my trip home, and we just talked. In addition to being a hot lay (one of the hottest, in my not-so-limited experience), the R-uh is smart, witty, well-read, and interesting, yet another reason I like him so much. We kissed a little, but managed to restrain ourselves. However, then we started sending each other progressively more sexual text messages, along the lines of "Raz, when can we get together so I can worship that ass?" and made plans to get back to our old tricks. I agreed, but then backed out on the night in question, as I got a case of guiltiness about his baby mama and kid. I told him that I couldn't interfere with his family, and that this was different than just some random chick he was dating, and that we couldn't do it. He understood. A six month radio silence ensued.
Shortly before the P-N-Dub trip that I'm currently on, he called me out of the blue to chat. I thought, hell, we can be mature enough to get together for drinks. After all, it's established that whatever our sexual status, we do care about each other, and enjoy each other's company. So I called him and made plans to meet up last night in the sprawling metropolis of Renton, where he lives, in spite of our misgivings about our respective abilities to behave ourselves. This was our conversation, verbatim:
The R-uh: "Raz, I don't know if we can do this, because the second I see you I'm going to want to just hit that hot pussy."
Razzy: "Shit, I know. That would fucking rule. BUT, DAMMIT, WE CAN'T."
The R-uh: "No, we can't."
:::silence:::
Razzy: "Well, we're both adults. We can be mature enough to handle a couple drinks in a public place."
The R-uh: "I know, we'll keep things platonic. We can definitely be mature about this. We'll be okay."
I planned to wear the relatively unflattering wife beater-flood pant-flip flop combo I'd been rocking all day to be extra non-sexual, but at the last minute thought better of it. I dislike the idea of showing up to meet one of the hottest lays of my life looking like an unkempt Smith girl, so I threw on a very short, very tight halter dress, a pair of four-inch heels, and did my eye makeup. I'm still exuding "non-sexual" by forgoing the cocksucker red lipgloss...right?
Anyway, I showed up in Renton and discovered that the bar scene there is LAME. The main attraction in Renton is--I shit you not--the IKEA that is there. There is literally a sign on the freeway to Renton that identifies IKEA as a "tourist activity." Because Renton has such a piss-poor showing for its nightlife, we ended up at Freddie's Club, this shitty casino. We started off talking about football, George Bush, the decline and fall of our former employers, my career ideas post-grad school, R. Kelly's genius despite his pederast tendencies, and a host of other interesting but relatively platonic topics. However, I was hitting the Johnnie Walker, and he was drinking Maker's Mark, and even though we eventually switched to beer, the alcohol quickly steered things down a not-so-platonic path. I drove him back to his car, and we were making out, and after I established there was no way in hell I was going to exchange oral in the backseat of my mom's car, we talked ourselves into getting a shitty motel room.
Somehow we ended up at this place called the Renton Inn, which is NOT a particularly upscale establishment. The ancient Vietnamese desk clerk kept saying, "King size room vellllly expensive, queen size ten dollar cheaper." The R-uh jokingly pretended to think it over, much to my amusement, while the desk clerk was eyeing my dress suspiciously and surmising (I'm pretty sure) that I was a prostitute. I was tempted to ask the clerk if the hotel had hourly rates, but decided to at least make him think I was an escort, which seems a little classier than your average street hooker. Then the R-uh announced roguishly that he was feeling spendy and would shell out for the king. The clerk gave us a room key and a booklet of more Renton tourist attractions, which we leafed through in the elevator on the way to the room. Of course, IKEA was mentioned, as were Renton's many car dealerships and half of the shitty restaurants on the strip outside of the Sea-Tac airport. My next vacation is DEFINITELY going to be spent in Renton.
Five minutes later, we were disrobed, talking dirty, and making sure that we got the R-uh's extra $10 worth by utilizing every last square inch of that king sized bed. After the R-uh did the job for me a couple times, he made a request. He wanted to go anal. Now, I'm not squeamish about anal sex. I've done it a number of times, but to be honest it's not my favorite thing. For one thing, it doesn't really do much for me other than make me feel like a giving, generous person for satisfying my partner. For another, it's often somewhat painful, especially with a well-endowed man like the R-uh (he's Magnum material). I said, "I don't know, dude, we don't have any lube, and I wasn't really planning on it."
Another reason I'm not the world's biggest fan of anal sex is that the reality of this act is, frankly, pretty fucking disgusting. At the risk of seeming even less feminine and classy than I already do, when I'm anticipating giving a guy some backdoor action, I usually like to take a shit beforehand just to minimize the grossout factor. Girls (myself included) are usually embarrassed when they fart in front of guys or do something to indicate that they have a functioning colon. I don't know why girls are like this, because everyone has an asshole, but it's just instinct for us to be a little shy about those particular aspects of our physiology. That is what I meant when I said "I wasn't really planning on it." The R-uh got my meaning, and said that he didn't care, and wasn't going to give it to me to the hilt anyway. Finally, he wore me down and I obliged.
It's been a while since I've had anal sex, and especially a while since I've had it with someone packing a dick like the R-uh's. I felt like someone had shoved the pole of a parking meter up my ass. Like a good soldier, however, I just bit my lip and tried not to be sarcastic when the R-uh asked if I liked it. "Yeah...it's great," I said, wincing. "Hurry up," I urged. Normally I encourage guys to take their time, but in this case, I didn't think he could blow his load fast enough.
When it was over, I didn't even bother to light up a postcoital cigarette. I could tell that this was one of those particularly gross anal sex situations, so I grabbed him and dragged him off to the shower, mortified at what can only be described as a literally shitty situation. "Whoa, Raz," he said. "What's the deal?"
"I'm not into scat play," I responded semi-jokingly, while vigorously soaping the two of us down. "Not that I can really be too coquettish about this, but I'd hate to ruin your image of me as a demure flower of a lady."
"Is she okay?" he asked, gesturing to my nether regions.
"She's fine," I said, indicating my vagina. "Her dirtier counterpart is...well, let's just say I'm going to be sitting pretty gingerly for the next day or so."
Not to say that the sex was horrible; in fact, quite the contrary. As usual, the pre-anal action was borderline phenomenal, and even though the backdoor stuff was slightly painful and gross, the R-uh is just extremely proficient at pushing my buttons. As I drove home around 3 a.m., I thought about how my ass gets me into trouble in SO many ways. In this case, it has thwarted my attempts to be either mature or dignified. My ass is my best friend and my worst enemy. Damn that ass!
Labels: gross, P-N-Dub, perversion, sex, the R-uh
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Boo hoo.
Now look what you've done, Anonymous! You've gone and made me cry with remorseful self-loathing. If you keep posting such clever, incisive comments, you're going to make me feel so lonely and unloved that I might just go all Sylvia Plath on your ass. Then my suicide by unlit oven pilot light will rest squarely on your pussified anonymous shoulders, and the years of crushing guilt you'll experience will be more than your karmic reward for being such a banal and uninspired hater.
Now look what you've done, Anonymous! You've gone and made me cry with remorseful self-loathing. If you keep posting such clever, incisive comments, you're going to make me feel so lonely and unloved that I might just go all Sylvia Plath on your ass. Then my suicide by unlit oven pilot light will rest squarely on your pussified anonymous shoulders, and the years of crushing guilt you'll experience will be more than your karmic reward for being such a banal and uninspired hater.
Hey anonymous: don't hate, congratulate. Its not her fault you have a short weenie and all the bitch issues that go with it.
# posted by 
: 8/03/2006 4:50 PM
: 8/03/2006 4:50 PM
Razzsters... can you please just delete these assenine anonymous fuckers' posts? Seriouthly... and changing the subject: I am totes jealous of R-uh... and not for the act that made the tushy uncomfy: never enjoyed it myself, either. Also, on the matrimony post there seems to be an issue with what I assume was an embedded video: I am using the latest version of Safari: Mac all the way, baby...
Is this news really? Don'tchoo wanna phuck every black guy you can think of?
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# posted by : 8/31/2006 3:04 PM
: 8/31/2006 3:04 PM Links to this post:
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