The Fireman

“So, I hooked up with a fireman last night. But he had a really big head.”

“They all do, Mel.”

“No, really. He literally had a big head!”

I met “The Fireman” off of Craigslist. When it came to “The Fireman” there really were only three things that stood out about him. One of which, as you probably guessed, was his abnormally large cranium. The second was his attempt at dirty talk. At one point, being so ridiculous that I wanted to wrap his overly sized skull in duct tape just to shut him up. And last but not least, his general use of the backhand which I will explain later. But, he was hung like a horse and it was a welcome distraction from my ordinary, mundane existence and lack of a fulfilling sex life.

The idea of a 9” cock excited me. Turning down a well hung fireman was out of the question. Especially considering that I was having somewhat of a dry spell. Any ordinary booty call was not going to suffice. The arrangements were made and the plan was set into motion. We had talked at length before and I had already seen a few pictures of him and although he was no George Clooney he was far from the Elephant Man. Being as I was not all that attracted to him and was not looking for any strings, the nervousness that usually accompanied a first blind date were not there. After all, this wasn’t really a date. I couldn’t have cared less about what he thought of me and that freedom was refreshing.

“The Fireman” showed up and I ran down to the lobby to greet him. For once, here was a man that had not lied about his height. Just as promised, he was 6’1”. But, being as I was more interested in him horizontally, this refreshing bit of honesty was a moot point. After all, laying down we are all the same height. Aside from that, he reminded me of a Basset Hound. He had sad dog eyes and the most enormous head I’d ever seen. If he hadn’t been so tall and lean it probably wouldn’t have been so noticeable. Or maybe it would have. It was that big. How had I not noticed this in the pictures I’d seen?

Once inside my apartment we made ourselves some drinks. We made idle chit chat while working towards a good buzz. It was fascinating how he was able to litter our conversation about work and family with references of my naked body and his sexual prowess. I considered it truly an art form how he was able to weave my tits into every other sentence. At one point, I think I was actually getting a little jealous of my girls.

Upon “The Fireman’s” arrival, he had brought some supplies. Kudos to safe sex. I wasn’t aware that his Sav-On Bag O’ Goodies would include more than the Magnums he had promised. While working on round two of our drinks I asked for the cigarettes he had purchased on his way over. He told me they were in “the bag”. I went to survey the contents of “the bag” looking for my cancer sticks. Condoms, check. Lube, check. Cock-ring, che….Uhm, yeah. That’s right, no cigarettes.

There are only three reasons I can think of for a man to have brought a cock-ring. First being the ability to make him last longer and avoid the awkward pre coital “oops”. But from hearing him speak, that would not be a problem. Words like “several hours” and “multiple” were often used when trying to sell me the idea of us hooking up. Honestly, several hours is just too damn long for me to be pretending I’m Jenna Jameson. I top out at about 30 minutes and I like to be able to walk the next day. Call me crazy.

Secondly (and I may be wrong here), using such a device is supposed to add some girth to the male member. Considering that he was already sporting Trojan Magnums I figured that wasn’t the reason either. And thirdly, he must be gay. I certainly wasn’t getting any gay vibes so I was slightly confused. I asked him about it. His excuse? That he’d left it in that bag from a previous encounter and had just grabbed the bag to put his love gloves in on his way over. I thought it strange that he just happened to have a bag lying around his place with a cock-ring in it but I opted not to delve any further into that line of conversation. I’m all about toys (for me) and I may be considered naïve by some but something about seeing a man wearing a cock-ring reminds me of Gay porn. And frankly, that is definitely not my cup of tea.

Once he assured me he wouldn’t be wearing his nifty device “unless I wanted him to” we got back to our evening. Things steadily progressed from there because frankly, I was bored of the innuendos and was ready for him to show me how good he was with directions. We went to my bedroom and began the horizontal mambo. Aside from a desperate need to manscape, he was just as expected. I didn’t notice the curvature right away due to the size but it would become painfully obvious later that because of that curvature I wouldn’t be having any fun on my back. So, right into doggy style I went.

Things were going quite well until he tried his own version of what I can only consider reflexology. He proceeded to bend my leg so that he was holding my foot up by his side. No big deal, I’m limber. He then began to slap the arch of my foot with the back of his hand. Repeatedly. He didn’t even have the decency to switch feet. I’m not sure what my left foot did to deserve such a beating but “The Fireman” seemed to feel it necessary. Combine that with his attempt at dirty talk and I almost asked him to leave so he wouldn’t hear me laughing while he was trying to be sexy and in control.

Now, I’m all for a little dirty talk while doing the nasty. A well timed “How do you like that?”, “Does that feel good?”, “Harder, faster” and “Mmmmm” will usually suffice. Just don’t call me “momma”, “mommy”, “ma” or any form of mother because that just creeps me out. I found it amusing when he asked me “how I liked his big brown cock”. I thought it hysterical when he asked “how I liked his big brown, half Persian, half Italian cock”. All the while keeping the rhythm with his physical assault of my left foot. First off, his phrases were entirely too long. When implementing the art of dirty talk, less is more. Keep it simple. If I had wanted him to recite his dissertation I would have had him do it before we got naked. Plus, it just wasn’t sexy coming from Mr. Potato Head. I felt half inclined to ask him how he liked my “quarter English, quarter French, half Slavic, American pink pussy” but I held my tongue not wanting to get into a conversation about ethnicity.

Luckily for me, after round one, the fireman got called into work and I didn’t have to be tortured with three hours of dirty talk about his half breed penis. Since then he’s made several attempts at trying to get together again but unless he has laryngitis I’m not interested. I also still get the occasional, out of the blue, random text asking “you don’t want a big throbbing cock pounding?” Yeeeeeaaaah, No. I’m all for a big cock but a throbbing one? That’s just gross. Isn’t there something he can take for that? Penicillin perhaps? And are there any ladies that actually respond to that shit? For me, that’s JUST...NOT…SEXY!

How Quizno's is a metaphor for my life...

I went for a nice walk at Griffith Park this evening with a blind date. I needed to get out of the house and get some fresh air since I have been so miserable lately. After our walk, my date and I decided to grab some coffee at Starbucks. We hit up the local strip mall and right next to the Starbucks was a Quizno’s. That was when I made my mind up. As much as I hated to actually spend money on going out I figured that the $10 I had left in my wallet wasn’t going to help me out of my current predicament anyway. So, fuck it. I decided to treat my constantly upset, stressed out stomach to a meatball sub and some soup. Mmmm, broccoli cheddar soup. Quite possibly the best soup in the world. Almost better than sex soup. Wait, depending on the guy…BETTER than sex soup. I was gonna have me some balls and soup.

I couldn’t tell my date about my decision because I had already told him I had no cash on me for coffee so he would pay. A little white lie, but not that far from the truth. I had, after all, driven out to see him down in Hollywood. And I hate driving into Hollywood. After coffee, my date left to go to Ralph’s since he needed to pick up some stuff and I made my stealth get away. That probably wouldn’t have looked too good had he seen me buying food right after lying about my lack of funds.

Excited about my dinner I snuck my way into the sandwich shop with the stealth of a black panther. Being careful not to catch the attention of my departing walking mate. Once inside I made my way to the counter. I needed to make this food purchase fast.

“Hi. Can I get a meatball sub?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have meatballs right now”.

Hmmm, ok….? That was the first sign I should have made a B line for the door but I was there and they still had my better than sex soup. Something else would have to suffice.

“I notice you are still offering a large sub for $5. Does that include any large sub?”

“No, just these on the Value Menu.”

Ok….? Hmm, which one of the five subs listed should I opt for? So many choices, what should I do? Of course, as if to mock me, my beloved meatball sub was among the five staring back at me. So really, I only had my choice of four. I wasn’t feeling ham and cheese and I didn’t want the turkey. The chicken wasn’t screaming out at me either so I decided to go big and check out the rest of the menu. How much more than $5 could a sandwich cost anyway? I opted for the Black Angus Steak Sandwich.

As he was making my sandwich, I told him that I would also like a cup of the broccoli cheddar soup.

“We aren’t selling any soups right now.”

WHAT? WHAT? No meatballs AND no soup? The only two things in that entire stupid place I wanted were NOT being sold THAT day. Dumbass behind the counter just looked at me as I’m sure my disappointment was quite obvious.

“I don’t know why. We just don’t have it right now.”

So, that answered that. I was stuck. Suddenly, Chinese was sounding really good to me but my sandwich was already rolling through the toaster. Ugh!

Crestfallen, head hung in defeat, I walked to the checkout counter. That’s when I saw the sign by the register that read “We do not have any meatballs or soups available today”. In all my excitement I had raced straight to the sandwich making counter. Completely unaware of the disappointment that lay ahead.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” dumbass asked.

Yeah, how about some fucking soup!?! “No thank you”.

“That will be $8.18.”

Not only did I have to pay three dollars more for a sandwich that I didn’t even want but I wasn’t even getting a side or drink. What the hell do they make these sandwiches out of to dignify charging so fucking much? Do they lace them with blow, pot, E? I know the bread is good but unless it is made with Cristal and yeast these people are committing highway robbery. In addition, I had to use my last “saving for laundry” quarter due to the .18 cents. Damn them. Damn them all to hell.

And just in case you were wondering, the Black Angus Steak Sandwich sucks.