THE BABY BIRD CHRONICLES

May 4, 2017 

 

Baby Bird and I had a date to see each other in Long Beach on a Saturday afternoon—he was up north for a work thing. I was happy to skip the two-hour drive to La Jolla. I made plans to see Erin after him (spend the night, actually), and then drive to a baby shower in Newport the following day. That Saturday afternoon went off without a hitch and I had fun with my friends after. I’m generally in a good mood after seeing an hour-long client. I’m buzzed. I have cash. And then a miracle happened (of the financial variety), he asked if I was free that Monday. In Long Beach. I didn’t realize he was staying for a few days. Win-win.

            

I pre-gamed Monday morning at Erin’s bar (she works from 6 a.m. – noon). That’s the only friend-pregame I can do. Her bar is six minutes from the hotel he was in. Back in the day, I’d pregame/pre-dinner with friends, but I never wanted to work after. It was a struggle to muster the ho energy. Plus, I was often full and that’s never good for fucking. But this I could do. It was fun drinking bloody mary’s and talking shit with my best friend before I saw him. 

         

When I showed up on Monday, I was buzzed/happy and dove right in. Turns out, he drank too much the night before and couldn’t come. Luckily, he understands his body and coming isn’t tied to his ego. The minute he gave me the heads up, I stopped giving him head and got up to pee/wash. We chit-chatted while I got dressed. I don’t think he expected me to give up and get dressed that fast, but you tell me you probably won’t be able to come, I’m gonna count my blessings and get out of dodge. As I said, I’m grateful he’s an adult, it wasn’t remotely weird. Which is rare in my field. 

         

I can’t recall if he told me that Monday or the Saturday previous, but he admitted to taking Viagra every time he sees me. Every time?! I’d normally be pissed, I hate when The Texan takes it because it keeps him from coming, but I guess, like opioids, they affect you differently when you actually need them.

 

A week later, on our regularly scheduled Monday in La Jolla, he wasn’t hungover but it took some effort on both our parts to get him to ejaculate. I could tell he was trying hard to come. When I came back from the bathroom, the fucker divulges that his back had been hurting so he took two Vicodin that morning and then two Oxycontin’s! I made a faux slapping gesture and said, “Are you crazy? Are youtryingto challenge me?” He laughed and said, “But look, you’re awesome A miracle worker.”

 

“Yes, but I’d prefer not to have the deck stacked against me.” I smiled and took a sip of the margarita he brought up from the hotel bar. Jesus, this guy. Making my not-the-easiest-job-already into America Ninja Warrior.What is it with men? Don’t they want to jizz? Isn’t that the god damn point? Like the three little bears: “I want to cum, but not too fast.” Meanwhile, it’s the dick-sucking chef who gets blamed. The job is tough enough, let’s not make it harder. 

 

It’s a bit of a mind-bender, him being a self-realized alcoholic. A first for me. Given my history, it’s bizarre enabling/supporting an alcoholic, but he’s a dry-aged man, he’ll do what he wants. And it’s one more thing that makes my service a commodity he’ll want to keep around. The blowjobs/baby-birding, certainly, but the fact that he can drink around me, I’m sure he appreciates that. He can’t with any other person. He carries a small nipper of good scotch in a red plastic cough syrup bottle—no label. I often take a swig or two. I’m the only one who knows. A trusty vault with tits and a wet mouth is a keeper. Not to mention that I never text/bother him. I imagine, being married, he appreciates that as well. If only The Texan felt the same way. That dummy would kill goat with his bare hands for me to text/call him constantly. He can kiss my grits.

 

 

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