Hi, My Name Is Steve, and I Am Divorced

Match Game '11

2011-05-02T18:04:00.004-04:00

I am about to shatter the image you have of me.

But, as Eminem says, "hold your nose, 'cause here goes the cold water".

I met my current girlfriend on match.com.

What? Huh? Holy shit!

You can't believe that a guy like me, who never had much of a problem getting girls, or at least getting sex, would ever try online dating. But there it is, just as clear as Ashley Tisdale's nosejob.

I'd totally do her, btw, with or without the big schnoz. Or the crossbite. She really should have seen an orthodontist instead of a plastic surgeon. But I digress.

Life is very different for me now. My daughter Ivie is with me all the time, except when she's at daycare. Her mom comes around every once in a while, but it's usually to eat and borrow money. It's almost like having another child.

"Mommy, wanna play Barbies?" Ivie will ask, in her sweet little girl voice.

"Not now baby," Tim will reply, laying on the couch, her eyes already half closed.

I don't have the freedom I used to. I'm totally fine with that. I wasted a lot of time when I was younger, meeting up with friends, buying $12 drinks, making sure everyone smelled my cologne and saw my new suit. I did have some fun, but things are less hectic for me nowadays.

Every once in a while, I meet someone out. Ivie is really helpful with that. She's a beautiful girl, with big blue eyes and porcelain skin, and she's always giggling about something. Wherever I go, every hot chick in the place runs up to say, "Oh how cute!" and sometimes I can strike up a conversation--but let's face it, she didn't walk up to see me, so that usually doesn't work.

During the "sex years", I mostly met women at the office, through mutual friends, or while out doing errands. I almost never met anyone at clubs or bars.

My company has been bought out, and most of my coworkers were laid off. I work remotely from home most days, and even if I go to the office, I have exactly zero eligible female coworkers. Most of my social friends have married off and have children of their own. On the rare occasions when they go out, they constantly check their watches and calculate out loud how much they owe the babysitter so far. The torch has been passed to a younger generation of partiers, a tattooed, pierced group of kids, yes, kids, with whom I've nothing in common.

And as far as errands are concerned, I'm not dilly-dallying at the laundromat anymore. I'm in there to get my drycleaning and get the hell out--even if there is some curvalicious bombshell in line behind me. I'll smile at her on the way out, but that's about it.

To put it simply, I have a lot fewer dating prospects than I used to. So yeah, I signed up on Match.

Writing my profile was fun. I worked hard on it and made sure it wasn't loaded with all the cliches that others were, such as, "Well, here goes", "I'm not comfortable talking about myself", etc.

I really liked browsing the profiles too. I could put in the exact criteria I was looking for, and "meet" more women in a day than I would meet in six months on my own. Local women, women my age who liked the same things I did.

Next time: The online dating begins...!

What the eff was I thinking?

2011-05-01T21:27:00.003-04:00

I just went back and read a bunch of my posts from 2004. Who the fuck was that guy?

The word "juvenile" keeps coming to mind. I am a man, so my dick is programmed to give me great pleasure whenever I stick it anywhere, and it will always work that way. There are plenty of men out there seeking that thrill. But the guys who are obsessed with it, like I was, have something else going on psychologically. And yes, I was definitely obsessed. I was a fucking madman.

I played it off very nicely, thank you, both on here and individually with all of you who were IMing and emailing me, but I had issues. I was definitely preoccupied. I was screwing a lot, and yet still masturbating like a 15-year-old boy.

And another thing: Anyone can fuck a road whore. I dated some attractive girls--Lila was really hot, and Kelly, and Tim of course, but a lot of them were kinda average, and I did them pretty much because they were willing. When I came across a good one, I turned on the charm, loaded on the cologne, and prayed. Sometimes the girl would be interested, sometimes not. Be careful of the dudes who brag about getting a lot of sex. Most of them are either lying outright, or screwing some girl who's had 10,000 guys before him.

In my posts, I seemed to imply I got laid whenever I wanted, and that is not the case. If I was lucky enough to get some girl to fuck me, it was a good day.

Cue the crickets

2011-04-30T01:24:00.002-04:00

I've started and stopped this post five times so far.

Dad dying, while tragic, and a great source of sorrow for me, was not a total surprise. I attended to all the usual details and went back to work a week later, with only a trace of the malaise that comes with great tragedies. But the post about him shuffling off to the great beyond seemed a good way to end things here, so I never posted again.

Frankly, I was tired of blogging anyway, and had been for a while. I have no idea if I'm back or not; First and foremost, I want to find out if any of you are actually reading this, because there's nothing more pathetic than performing for a non-existent audience.

My daughter is a little over two now, old enough to scold me ("I mad. I mad at Daddy.") and to work a remote control with amazing skill. My marriage hasn't gone nearly as well.

I don't know exactly what happened. Tim barely comes home anymore. I don't know where she goes or what she does when she gets there. I have asked her 100 times if she's using again, and all she does is scream at me. We haven't had sex in a year.

I filed for divorce in October and I'm pushing to get things resolved as fast as I can. I have a life to live and I intend to live it.

I have a new girlfriend now, and I'm very happy. I've lost all my desire to fuck around; all I want now is a girlfriend.

That's it for now. Drop a comment please, so I know you read this!

Stevo

A breeze from the south

2009-06-11T13:24:00.001-04:00

Friday, May 22, 2009, 9:03am
Steve's house

Chris calling, my cell phone says.

This is bad. Chris never calls my cell, especially in the morning. Something is wrong. And if something is wrong, it's probably about dad.

I've been meaning to call my father for a while. It's been a week or so since I've spoken with him, and I've been worried since Greg told me dad was complaining of shortness of breath a few days ago. And of course, Dad has been getting dialysis three times a week for three and a half years, and he had heart surgery, and he takes 100 different kinds of pills...

I hit SEND on my phone. "Hello. Hello?" No one's there.

I'll call dad. That's what I'll do. I'll call him, and he'll pick up, with his usual "HEEE-llo", and I'll laugh a little, and realize I was worrying over nothing. I'll call him, and we'll have a nice chat.

Chris calling, says the phone again.

"Steve, it's Chris. I've got some bad news. About dad."

Please don't let him be dead. Please just let him be in the hospital again. I'll go visit him with Tim and the baby, and we'll nurse him back to health. He'll beat the odds, surprise the doctors and walk out of there on his own in a few weeks, just like he did last time.

Just please, please, don't let him be dead.

**********

Gardenview Estates Senior Living Community, late afternoon

Dad and I sit on a farmer's porch in wicker lawn chairs. The sun burns from a flawless sky, as blue as a Navy man's jacket. Each time the heat gets uncomfortable, a gentle breeze blows in, as if God has installed a giant thermostat just for us.

I turn to face dad and he's already looking at me, his eyebrows lifted a little, his mouth closed tightly.

"So... I guess this is it, kid," he says, finally.

"It can't be, Dad. It can't be. I don't know what I would do without you."

"Yeahh, ya do," he says, turning his head away from me. "You're a grown person. You don't need me as a father anymore. You need me as a friend. People lose friends all the time."

"You make it sound so trivial. You're my father!"

"Are you really gonna miss our bi-monthly phone conversations that much?" He grins.

"Come on. I have a new baby, you know. And a wife. And a job. I get busy."

His mouth spreads into a wide smile, a contented smile, as if I were Frank Sinatra singing a beautiful tune.

"See? See?? You're busy living your life," he says. "All fathers go eventually. That's the way it's supposed to be."

"But there are so many things I should have said. And I should have spent more time with you. I feel horrible."

He listens patiently, his eyes locked on me. "What do you want to say, Steve? That you love me? That you appreciate everything I did for you? That you'll never forget me?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"And you didn't think I knew all that already?"

"It wouldn't have hurt to say it."

"Maybe not. But that's not how it was with us. It was assumed," he shrugs.

We both stare at the Tigerlillies in the flower beds near our feet. "That mulch is fresh. Can you smell it? I used to love that smell," he says.

"Dad, what happened?"

"To me?"

"No. To Al Pacino. Of course to you!"

"Well, first my parents had sex," he says, gesturing with his hand. "Then, about nine months later, I came down the birth canal..."

"Dad."

His smile fades. "It was quick, Steve. Don't worry about the details."

"I need to know, dad."

"Why?" he asks, squinting at me.

"So my imagination won't run away with me."

He breathes deeply, running his thumb and forefinger across the collar of his white undershirt. It occurs to me that this is hard for him, despite everything.

"I got up, got dressed, and went out to the car to go to dialysis. I was due there at 6am. I felt funny. Lightheaded, like.

"I got in the car, closed the door, and when I went to put the key in the ignition..."

"That was it?"

"Everything went white. Not black. It was white everywhere I could see."

He pauses again, staring into the sky. "I took a deep breath. I had to force it. My whole body was shutting off. For a second I could see again. I was parked facing the building and I could see the window to an office. It was Carole's office, the one who does the marketing. Carole wasn't there, of course. It was early..."

"And then what?"

"And den, nuttin'!" He says summarily. "Everything really did go black after that."

"Did it hurt?"

He shrugs. "Just for a second. It was very fast."

It's easier for me to breathe now that I know the details. I'll never get over it, but now I don't have to wonder what it was like for him.

"Did you see the tunnel and the light?"

"Yeah," he laughs. "Your mother was there. And my mother and father. Your mother had a drink in her hand."

"What?!"

He throws his head back and laughs, a little too hard for the joke. Gradually, silence descends again.

"Don't be mad at your mother, Steve."

"I'm not."

I turn to look at him. "I hadn't seen you in a couple of months. I feel very bad about that," I say, finally.

"You know that CD stand in my apartment? The wooden one?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"I had all my CDs and DVDs on there. I used it every day. Before that, I had them piled up on the... on the windowsill next to my chair."

"I know, Dad. I built that stand for you."

"Of course you did! That's my point! You did something that made me happy every day. And you fixed my computer, you set up my Facebook profile picture, you married Tim..."

The laugh again. This time I join him.

"She's my favorite daughter-in-law. Don't tell the other two. I love her just as if she was my own daughter."

"She loves you too, Dad." God dammit. How am I going to tell her?

"Yeah, that's not gonna be easy," he says. Holy shit. Did he read my mind?

"I didn't say that out loud, did I, Dad?"

"Nope. I know things now. I hear things."

He sighs a little. "I would have liked you to be here more. But you were two hours away. We talked on the phone sometimes, and that was nice. It's not like I was totally bored around here. And you just had a baby...That baby of yours," he smiles, his voice trailing off.

"She comes here on April first, you leave six weeks later. That wasn't a coincidence, was it?"

"No. I had something to live for. Someone I wanted to see. I was ready after that."

"But you were so healthy!"

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh really?" he says, sarcastically. "Take a look at all the meds I was taking sometime, Steve.

"I could've died three years ago, the first time I got sick. It wasn't my time. Now it is."

"But what if you collapsed 90 seconds earlier? What if you were in the main lobby instead of your car? Maybe someone would have seen you! They could have called someone--"

"Steve," he interrupts. "What if your brother was an hour later coming to my house three years ago? I was saved that day because I got lucky. And I got lucky during rehab, when I got a bad infection and almost died. How much luck can one guy have?"

"I wanted another five years. Or more," I say.

"Five years? Yeah, sure," he says, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Five more years on dialysis? Do you have any idea how hard dialysis is on the body?"

"Not exactly."

He shakes his head. "My body was getting tired. I could feel it. I knew it."

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"About what? I got three and a half years. Three and a half years!!" he shouts. "I visited family, I went to the casinos, I even found some fun things to do with the old geezers around here! I played Bingo and Pinochle, I sang in the choir--remember?!"

"Yes. I hope you handed out cotton balls."

"No, I stood in the back," he smiles. The comeback was quick, so quick that he was obviously anticipating my wisecrack.

"I had fun," he says. "I was very lucky."

"It just feels weird," I say. "It feels... wrong. What if they put men on Mars someday? You won't see that!"

"I've seen wars, I've seen peace, I've seen good presidents and bad presidents. I saw 9/11, I saw Pearl Harbor. I saw men on the moon. But best of all, I was in the room when each one of you kids were born and I was there to watch you grow up. You boys all turned out very well. You I wasn't sure about for a while," he says, and though he smiles wickedly, his eyes are very sad.

"I know I didn't always make it easy. I'm sorry--"

"Ah, Jesus. What is this, Ghost Whisperer now?" he smiles. "Seriously, I'm so proud of you, the beautiful girl you married, and your little daughter. You take care of that little girl. Treasure her every single day. Treasure both of them!" he says, his face going steely.

"I will. I do. I promise, Dad."

"Good."

The sun has set a little. A breeze kicks up, and suddenly I smell Lilacs. I had forgotten they grow them here.

"I feel like there's a million things to say, but I can't even think of one. Dad, do you... have any..."

He looks at me. "Do I have any what?"

"Any, I don't know, words of wisdom?"

He rolls his eyes. "Holy Christ! What am I, a fortune cookie?"

"Well, you know, any advice? Anything?"

"Don't act like you're trying to solve a mystery. I already told you everything you need to know. You already know it. It's your wife and daughter. That's it. Everything else is secondary."

"I know."

"Then why do you work so much?"

"Uh, I..."

"Stumped by an apparition. That's pretty weak, Steve," he says, shaking his head. "Do me a favor. Don't tell me you know. Just do what you're supposed to do. When things get hard someday, and they will get hard, and you and Tim are fighting, and you are feeling like you want to give up, that is when you have to remember it. When you have problems, work on them. Don't walk away. Stay there, even when it's hard. You got it?" he says, his eyes locked on mine.

"I will."

"Promise me."

"I promise, Dad." I say, my throat tightening, my voice sinking to a whisper.

The breeze gets stronger. A tuft of dad's wispy hair stands straight up for a moment before flopping back down.

"A breeze from the south," he says. "It always blows from the south in the afternoon. I'm gonna miss that. I'm gonna miss a lot of things," he says, and his eyes have gone misty too. He turns quickly away from me.

The breeze subsides and the porch goes almost completely silent. A bird sings, but it's far, far away and I can barely hear it.

Dad stands up, his wicker chair creaking slightly. "Gotta go inside. It's dinner time. These old fogies eat pretty early."

"Can I come, Dad?"

He shakes his head.

"Please?"

He takes a step towards me and rubs the back of my head with his big right hand. He used to do that years ago, when I would come home and complain of a lousy day at school.

"You wouldn't like the food anyway," he laughs, and turns toward the entrance. He takes a few steps and then turns back to me. "I want you to know I love you very much," he says, and I can barely see him through my tears.

"I love you too, Dad."

"See? We can say it after all!" he smiles, and as he walks toward the door, he seems younger somehow, his back straighter, his step lighter.

"Dad? Dad! Don't go yet!"

The bird sings again, closer now. I turn to look at him.

He sits on a branch, the upper part of his body a brilliant yellow, the rest a deep black. Chirrrp chirp chirp, he says, just three short syllables.

Chirrrp, chirp chirp.

This is all happening too quickly. I need to see my dad one more time, need to cast my eyes on him once more, even if it's just to watch him walk away.

I turn quickly to see him, but I'm all alone.

It's a Girl

2009-04-17T00:52:00.002-04:00

Ivie Felicia Caruso
4/1/2009 3 lbs, 9 oz
20 inches long

She's very very tiny, but she's hanging in there.

I am so happy.

What Mom Left Behind

2009-04-01T09:02:00.004-04:00

I submitted this a while back to fieldreport.com... check it out...
-Stevo

=========================================================

It's fascinating to read a love letter long after a breakup, or to hold the boutonniere from my prom tuxedo in my hand 15 years after I wore it. I stash mementos like these in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet and look at them sometimes; they make my history seem more real.

Buried in the box, under an old deck of playing cards and my first camera, is a black silk scarf that my mother used to wear in her hair. It's a relic of the 70's, full of trippy, swirling designs; I remember staring at it, mesmerized, when I was four.

Silk was new to me. Whenever mom wore the scarf, I would climb on the couch and reach for it, delighting in its smoothness as I rolled it back and forth between my fingers. "Steve!" she would giggle.

But my mother was hardly the Carol Brady you are probably imagining. When I was ten or so, she began a long battle with alcoholism, and though some part of her still cared about her family, her true love was the nasty stuff in those fancy bottles.

Mom loved Southern Comfort. She was obsessed with it. Like a clingy girlfriend, she constantly kept a bottle close by her side, and stacked cases of it in our storage room as if our house were a prohibition-era speakeasy. SoCo was her lover, her priest, her therapist; it preoccupied her enough to forget my birthdays and to mortify me by staggering into the middle of the street in her ratty bathrobe, puffing on a clove cigarette, shrieking at me to come home for dinner.

The liquor made her unpredictable. Sometimes I would break a glass or a dinner plate, and she'd just smile warmly as she swept up the mess; other times, I'd drop a fork on the floor during dinner and she'd rip out a clump of my hair. Dad stuck up for me when he was home, but he worked 12-hour shifts at a factory, and most nights he came home after I had gone to bed.

She got worse. By the time I was 11, I dreaded holidays and family get-togethers. For some unfortunate reason, my seat at the table was right next to mom's, and it was guaranteed that, at some point during dinner, she would find a reason to crack me across the mouth in front of my aunts and uncles.

She beat me, and my two brothers. She called us every name on the bathroom wall, smacked us with wooden spoons, clawed us with her fingernails, and then kicked us when we covered our faces and dropped to the floor in the fetal position.

One day, when I was 12, mom told us that she was leaving for a while. We pleaded tearfully for her not to go, but she didn't listen. She had to be alone for a while, she said. Yeah, I cried too, but I remember how quiet the house got after the door closed behind her. A week later, I was thrilled to be rid of her.

She came home from time to time, usually to borrow money from dad. If he could spare it, he would surreptitiously hand her a folded-up wad of bills and make her swear that she wouldn't spend it on booze, a promise they both knew she wasn't going to keep.

To his credit, dad never complained. He never decried the injustice of his wife simply erasing herself from our lives, leaving him with all the responsibility. He never complained about money, though in retrospect I have no idea how he kept us fed and clothed on the salary he was making. My brothers and I never wanted for anything; we had bikes and videogames, just like the other kids. Dad could have used that money to go on dates, or for guys' nights out. But he sacrificed those things so my brothers and I could be happy, and I love him for that.

Dad never divorced mom. Though she had been out of the house for years, he left her on his health insurance, and always referred to her as his "wife", graciously making excuses when people asked where she was.

I'm supposed to say that I outgrew my mother's influence as I became a man, but I didn't. I grew up fearing for my personal safety, largely keeping quiet in case some random word sent mom over the edge. The best way for me to get by was to silently observe my surroundings, cautiously avoiding trouble, trusting no one but myself. For a long time, that's how I lived my life.

My grandmother used to say, "You can't make good cookies with a bad cookie cutter." I built relationships with women the only way I knew how, trusting them inch by inch, suspicious of every promise, doubtful of their affections.

Getting a girl to date me was a thrill. Getting her to have sex with me was a bigger thrill. But what satisfied me most of all was walking away from her. I got what I wanted, and left. And why not? She was going to do it to me if I stuck around, right?

It was something of a rite of passage the first time my mother asked me for money. My heart swelled with pride; now I held the power, and could deny it to her if I wished.

I had dreamed of this moment for a long time, the confrontation in which I would dump a truckload of my suffering back on her. In my fantasies, I screamed in her face like an angry baseball manager, barraging her with accusations for which she could manage no reply. Of course, I would not attack her physically, but if she dared take a swing at me, I would catch her scrawny little arm and snap it like a toothpick.

In the end, I only told her no, that we both knew what the money was for, and that I refused to contribute to the destruction of her body. "It's already destroyed," she replied.

She would come by my college apartment every few weeks to wash my dishes and do my laundry, and once I was good and buttered up, she'd ask for cash again, "so I can buy something to eat".

Despite how it sounds, mom wasn't homeless, and she wasn't starving. She bounced from one friend or relative's couch to another, sponging off them for as long as they would let her.

I wanted to help her, but instead of giving her cash to drink away, I took her shopping. Smart, right?

I thought so too, until a neighbor saw mom at the grocery store, returning a big pile of food. She left with a nice wad of cash, I am sure, and it's no mystery what she did with it.

I screamed at mom for that, swore at her, completely lost my temper, like she did to me. And she shriveled in terror, curling into a little ball, just like I used to. Was that what I used to look like?

It felt good to unload on mom, but only briefly. Despite the history between us, revenge seemed wrong. I wanted to be happy, and normal. I didn't want to be filled with the horrible hate that she was.

After I graduated from college and got my MBA, mom didn't come around much. She came to see me one Christmas, drunk at 10am, and empty-handed because she was "in between jobs". I had a gift for her, though—a framed picture of her three sons. Even mom wouldn't be able to get cash for that!

On September 23, 2004, mom suffered a severe stroke and never regained consciousness. She died with her three sons, two daughters-in-law, and husband standing around her hospital bed. She was 56 years old.

It was sad to see mom in her coffin, but in a way it helped me. She was finally free of her addiction, and she looked at peace, far from the monster she had become.

I have a great job now, and I married a beautiful girl named Tim last fall. Later this year, we're going to try for a baby. It's been a long road for me, but I've finally forgiven mom. I can't tell you exactly how I did it, because it was really just a million little steps, with plenty of wrong ones thrown in. If you're in the situation I was, the worst and only mistake you can make is giving up.

When I think of mom now, I don't think of the sad, hopeless drunk that she turned into; I think back to when I was a little boy, when mom would ask me what I did in Kindergarten that day, then pick me up so she could look in my eyes as I answered.

But I didn't want to talk about Kindergarten. I didn't want to go to school at all. I just wanted to stay with mom forever, playing with her black silk scarf.

Tricks and Treats

2009-03-08T12:23:00.002-04:00

Dear readers: Here is a little something I wrote recently. No, it didn't actually happen, and yes, I know it's not Halloween. Enjoy anyway.

~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@

I hate parties.

It annoys me to stand in a cramped, hot, loud apartment or house for hours, listening to some tool brag about his car or repeat what he heard Rush Limbaugh say that day.

It's painful to watch a drunk guy hit on a girl awkwardly and strike out, only to brag the next day that he fucked her.

I never had much luck with women at parties. Every single guy is trying to get laid, and unless you're the tallest, loudest, or richest, there's a chance you'll walk out alone, no matter how good your game is.

The sorority down the street hosts a Halloween party every year, and Marissa really wants to go. I'm dreading it. I begged her not to go, told her that we'd go to whatever restaurant she wanted for dinner instead, but she refused. I resisted until she called me "strange".

I should have stood my ground and boycotted the party. That would have been the manly thing to do. And I really meant to, but then I pictured her at the party, alone, strutting around in some sexy costume (catwoman? naughty nurse? French maid?), with six dozen muscled fraternity guys wearing Eddie Bauer polos and deep tans, tripping over each other to throw some stupidass pickup line at her. Yeah, those guys are idiots. But the joke is on me, because when a guy looks like that, girls are so busy staring that they don't even hear them.

I pace around my apartment for an extra half hour, intentionally making myself late. Yes, I'm only going to this party out of insecurity, but Marissa doesn't need to know that.

"Steeeve!" She squeals, rushing up to hug me. She's wearing a baggy set of blue hospital scrubs--a medical professional, yes, but far from the sexy costume I was afraid of. Maybe this party won't be so bad after all.

"There's another Jason here," she laughs. "Good thing I recognized your shoes".

My costume was easy. I merely slapped on a flannel shirt, jeans, hiking boots, and a goalie mask, and voila!--instant big-screen mass murderer.

The room fills gradually, until there's barely space to walk. It's dark, except for orange lights and flickering strobes. Music blares deafeningly from two huge speakers at the front of the room, and vampires, pirates, and dead presidents dance as if they were on fire.

I can actually feel the bass thumping in my throat, like a second heartbeat. I would love to step outside and get some air.

"Hey, Marissa, how would you feel about--"

She doesn't hear me. She's too busy twirling her black hair and talking to some dude with an axe buried in his head.

The axe doesn't hide his beefy shoulders or his lumberjack jaw. I can't hear what he's saying, but from his cocky smile and Marissa's giggle, he just made a joke.

Oh, how impressive! Studly boy made a funny! Probably some crack about how he put his weight belt on backwards.

"Steve, this is my friend Lorne. We used to go out."

I extend my hand and he pretends not to see it. "I'm gonna borrow your girlfriend. Don't worry, I'll have her back by morning." She chuckles again as he pulls her out to the dance floor.

This sucks. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

John F. Kennedy taps my shoulder. "Hey, Steve!"

"Who's that?"

"It's me, Greg. From Lit class!"

"Nice mask, bro."

Greg looks out on the dance floor. "Who's the dude dancing with your girlfriend?"

"Her friend."

"I hate that!"

I don't like it, either, but I can't keep her locked down. These are the dating years, the years where we do all the wild shit that we won't have the time or energy for when we're 30. All the good stories start out with, "This one time, in college..." not, "Last night, after I put the kids to bed..."

I guess Marissa is living out her story right now. Lorne is just a bit out of her reach, just as she was out of mine. She loves his attention, sucks it down like fancy champagne, but no matter how much she drinks, her insecurity is never satisfied. It doesn't matter that I am here, that I care for her, that we've been together for over two months; I don't look like a J. Crew model, and I'll never be featured in somebody's beefcake calendar. I don't come from a rich family. I'm not a "catch". Lorne is all those things, and he's probably never had to work for any of it. She wants his affection, needs it deeply, and I am nothing more than an obstacle in her way.

"Hey. Hey! Are you listening to me? She's looking at you," Greg says.

"Who?"

"You have nice eyes," a female voice says from behind me.

I turn around, and the first thing I notice is the crushed velvet of her bodice, so smooth that it might have been pulled from a jeweler's case. Her puffy sleeves are covered in multi-colored squares, and her silk skirt ends somewhere around mid-thigh--where her gartered black stockings take over.

As sexy as she is, I can't stop looking at her face--or at least the part I can see. I marvel at her taut, angular jaw, her thick lips covered in red "fuck me" lipstick, her long neck--but the rest of her face is hidden, covered by a black mask.

I lean in closer to see her eyes, squinting to make them out in the flickering light: Deep blue, just like denim, though her pupils are so huge I can barely tell. They're too big, even for such a dark room.

"Are you staring at me?"

"Are you smoking tonight?" I like to answer a question with a question. Yep, I'm sure she's high.

"Mm-hmm. I wouldn't mind having some more, though. Whaddya got?"

"Nothing. Sorry."

"I'm Ashley."

I smile and nod. I've been shit on enough by girls tonight. This one is all mine. I don't care how hot she is; I'm going to make her work for everything she gets. I'll even make her beg me to tell her my name.

She pulls me out to the dance floor. She turns her back to me, her shoulder blades against my chest, grabbing two handfuls of her blonde hair as her black-skirted ass sways in perfect time with the beat. Every pair of male eyes within 10 feet turns to gawk.

Her skirt flips up, and I break a piece of ice between my teeth as I glimpse a flash of naked white thigh above her garter.

The dance floor is hotter than the rest of the room. I dance until my legs ache and sweat beads up on the inside of my mask, but as long as there's no sign of Marissa, I'm staying right here.

But there is a sign of her. She's still dancing with Lorne. His axe is askew, slipping down his sweaty forehead; a dark stain covers most of his chest. He's got his hand on the small of her back. He probably let it slip there nonchalantly, as if he wasn't even thinking about it, but I'm sure it's a carefully choreographed first step. Dude thinks he's going to screw my girlfriend!

He doesn't care that she's got a boyfriend. To him, I am just some loser, an unworthy opponent for him to humiliate. And Marissa is so googly-eyed over him that she'll overlook every single reason why she shouldn't be doing this. She'll forget every five-hour conversation we've ever had, every time I've comforted her, every time I've put her happiness ahead of my own. She'll throw all that away to satisfy Lorne's ego, and all I can do is stand by and watch.

Marissa stops dancing and grabs my shoulder. "Who the hell are you dancing with?" she shouts, and I can tell she's yelling despite the music.

I want to lash out at her, to tell her I'm pulling the exact same shit she is, that I can give as good as I get. But as soon as I start in on her I won't be able to stop; the floodgates will open and I'll dump out every ounce of frustration I've been accumulating, right here on the dance floor. I'll embarrass her, or frustrate her, or look like a pussy--all of which would help Lorne's odds of getting what he wants.

"That's my friend Ashley," I say, careful to use the same words she did. "We used to go out."

Of course, we never went out. But it was too tempting to pass up.

Marissa stares at me for what seems like an hour, searching my mask as if it contains an explanation of what just happened. She wasn't expecting this from me, didn't know I could be a worthy adversary. She underestimated me, and, in the space of an hour, I've intrigued her more than a thousand stuffed animals ever could.

Lorne pulls her away and she turns her back to me, dancing again.

"Who was that?" Ashley coos into my ear. I smell the alcohol on her breath, peach schnapps I think, and it occurs to me that I wouldn't have a turd's chance with this chick if she were sober.

"Some girl who's less hot than you," I hear myself say, and I feel my mouth slide into the same wry smile that I saw on Lorne earlier.

She throws her head back and laughs entirely too loud for the joke, then leans back in to me, her hands on my shoulders, her waist bumping mine.

"Let's go for a walk," she says, and pulls me away by the hand before I can answer.

She pushes open a narrow side door, and we instinctively shade our eyes against the harsh light of the hallway. "Ruth is out tonight. Because of the party."

"Who?"

"Ruth. The house mom. I'm the sergeant-at-arms here, so I have a key to her room."

My cock goes stiff. She wants to have sex! Why else would she be sneaking me off to some secluded room in the house? I was hoping for a walk and a little makeout session; looks like I was aiming low.

Ruth's bedroom is filled with old-lady knicknacks and pictures of what must be grandkids. The comforter on her bed is pulled tight, with two fluffed pillows sitting perfectly parallel to one another in front of the headboard.

She flips the light off, and I strain to see her as she reaches behind her back and unhooks her skirt.

It falls to the floor and I see her naked thighs, just like I did before, but more of them this time, much more, slowly coming into focus as my eyes adjust to the dark.

Her bustier has not even hit the floor yet and she is unhooking her bra and I listen to my own heavy breath as I frantically unbutton my shirt.

This is all happening way too fast for me to think about the consequences, or to worry about the guilt that is surely going to consume me as soon as I leave here.

I am going to do this. For once, I am not going to be the victim. I will not be humiliated, will not be shown up by a girl who is supposed to be mine and some arrogant prick who thinks he's bulletproof. Today I am going to win.

My heart pounds. I can barely breathe, what with this mask on and all...

The mask! It's still on!

I reach for it. "Let's leave the masks on!" she says.

She strips off her bra and it falls silently from her hand. Her tits are bigger than they looked in her black bustier, full and ripe, and my hands go to them instinctively, squeezing and kneading them, feeling their heft, pinching her nipples.

She slips her panties off and we fall onto Ruth's bed. Her legs open and I am in between them and we are fucking, mingling our naked bodies together, finally, finally, unleashing the lust we've been building up all night.

She's moaning, softly at first, then louder. She likes this. She wants it. And I want it too, more than I thought I would. I like being on top of her, inside of her, pounding my hips against hers with all my strength, making her moan, making her big tits bounce, controlling her totally.

I can feel it building inside me, the orgasm, and I know I should pull out, that cumming inside some girl I don't know is a horrible idea, but I tell myself that it's already too late, that we aren't using protection anyway, that this doesn't make it any worse. Part of me knows that's a lie, but somehow I just don't care.

I close my eyes. The shudders consume me and I am filling her with wave upon wave of cum, my breath hot against the inside of the mask.

I'm barely off the bed and Ashley is already dressed. "Lift up your mask. Just halfway," she says. I do it.

She presses her lips to mine, moaning as her tongue slips wetly into my mouth. By the time I pull the mask back down, she's at the door.

"Wait a couple of minutes before you go back out to the party," she says.

"Ashley. Wait!"

She looks at me.

"How did you know I had nice eyes? You hadn't even seen me yet."

"Why do you care?" she asks, and before I can answer, she is gone.

2009-02-27T20:00:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, September 9, 2008, 7:30 AM
Steve and Tim's house

"What were you doing in the shower so long, mister?"

"I always take long showers."

"You better not have been cumming in there!"

It's only been 48 hours or so, but I'm already dying. I couldn't be more spoiled if my last name were Hilton. I wake up most days with my wife on top of me, squeezing my already-hard dick between her muscled thighs. Sometimes we do it twice before I even put a foot on the floor in the morning, and if I get home early enough from work, the chances are pretty good that cuddling will lead to kissing, kissing will lead to touching, and before long, she'll be bent over the cushioned armrest, her tight ass pointed up at me, waiting for me to take her again.

On the rare days when we don't do it, I'm either not horny enough to do anything about it (yes, it happens) or I jerk off. Of course, Tim has no problem with this.

Except today.

We've been planning this forever. She's been off the pill for 6 weeks, and it's finally time to try to get pregnant. No cumming for three days, that was the rule.

"Why would you think I was cumming when today is the day?"

"The day for what?" she says, tipping her eyes up at me.

"You know," I smile.

"Say it," she whispers, touching her palm to my cheek and pressing up against me, with nothing more than her night shirt between us, her stiff nipples poking my chest.

I go as stiff as a 15-year-old having his first slow dance. Tim loves dirty talk almost as much as I do. It turns me on that she likes it.

"It's the day we can try making a baby."

"How are we gonna make the baby?" she coos, flicking her tongue against my earlobe.

The bottom drops out of my stomach. I didn't need any help getting turned on today, and she's making it ten times worse. I mean better.

"By fucking each other's brains out," I finally manage, and the night shirt is already off.

**********

Saturday, October 25

She's well over a month late. But we couldn't have gotten it on the very first try, could we? But then again, we tried a lot more than once...

She resisted taking the test for weeks. She didn't want to be disappointed if it was negative, so we waited. But if it is true, she needs to be seeing a doctor regularly.

She sits in my lap on the bed, and the minutes pass like centuries.

The clock changes.

"Go look," she says.

"Don't you want to?"

"No. You."

As I watch myself walk to the bathroom, it hits me. I have a wife! I've settled down! I haven't gone out on a Friday night in weeks, and I don't miss it. I'm not living that life anymore.

I pick up the pregnancy test and read it. I turn to face Tim. She's staring at me.

"Come here and give me a hug, mom," I say.

45 degrees and falling

2008-09-21T10:09:00.001-04:00

Tim's mother, Diana, knows everything.

She knows how they'll cure cancer someday (high-tech blood transfusions), how to prevent kids from being abducted (by implanting GPS devices under their skin), and how to keep convicts from escaping prison (by building jails in space. Dumb idea, I know, and I'm sure Michael Scofield would find a way to break out anyhow.)

But most annoyingly of all, Diana knows how to keep mother Earth beautiful and pristine for all of eternity: By never throwing anything away. Ever.

Putting something in the garbage is painful for Diana. Every once in a while, just for laughs, I'll drop a plastic bottle in the trash while she's watching and wait for the scream. "What are you doooooing?!" she'll shout. "Recycle it!"

As for anything larger than a plastic bottle, you can forget it. If she has no room in the house for it, she'll try to sell it; if she can't sell it, she'll give it away; if she can't give it away, she'll put it on her curb with a "Free" sign on it, and leave it there for weeks until her husband threatens to divorce her.

Monday, September 8, 2008, 6:39PM
Steve and Tim's house

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to a strangely familiar red-cushioned office chair.

"It's our new chair!" Tim says, way too enthusiastically, like a kid trying to convince her mother to keep a stray dog.

It doesn't look new. And there is only one person sufficiently lacking in common decency to palm off a faded, tattered, and probably malfunctioning piece of crap like that on us.

"That's your mother's chair, isn't it?"

"It works," she says, unconvincingly. "Plus, we need a second chair, so we can sit together while you're on the computer!"

She hates it too. But she only stands up to her mother on very important matters; otherwise, fighting with her would be a full-time job. The chair is not going anywhere, so Tim must make her peace with it. She's forced to smile bravely and pretend to love it, the same way you compliment a friend's ugly baby or smelly dog.

"Watch!" she chirps, plopping down onto it.

I stare as her breasts bounce heavily. Why didn't I notice that tight T-shirt before?

She wriggles cutely into the seat, and the back rest immediately tips away from her and comes to a stop at a 45 degree angle, so that the chair looks more like a poolside lounger than a piece of office furniture.

She smiles weakly and reclines against the back rest, spinning a little to face me, her knees slightly apart, hips thrust upward, her tight shirt straining against her boobs.

My cock stiffens at her suddenly suggestive posture. I love that she still turns me on so much, even after two years of dating and almost a year of marriage. I imagine myself pulling that frayed shirt over her head and feeling her nipple stiffen as I tighten my lips around it...

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are so fucking gorgeous, you know that?" I ask in a hoarse whisper.

"You're crazy," she grins, rolling her eyes.

I grab her shirt and pull it up over her head, just like I imagined. Her naked breasts stare out at me, her nipples already at firm attention. She's been thinking about this, too.

Yeah, I've seen her tits a million times, and yet, like a song that never gets old, their smooth skin and gentle, sloping curves still get me hard every time.

My heart races. I hear the soft cling-ing of my belt buckle as I pull off my creased office slacks and frantically unbutton my white Oxford shirt. I watch unblinkingly as she slips her jogging shorts over her round ass and turns her big blue eyes up at me with a sexy half-smile.

I lower myself in between her legs, my pulse pounding in my ears, and rub my cock against the smooth skin of her pussy.

There is nothing like a hairless vagina. I love the pink folds of flesh and the telltale shine of wetness that tells me she's turned on. I love how her clit swells with her arousal and the way it feels between my teeth, hard and bulletlike. Covering all that natural beauty with wiry hair is a sin. Shaving it clean is like cutting down a row of nine-foot tall shrubs and revealing a gorgeous house behind them.

I shove it into her all at once, and the pleasure rushes to my head. I watch her, soaking in every detail, her bouncing tits, her half-opened mouth, her curvy thighs pinned against my hips, the way her hair cascades gently down her shoulder, ending halfway down her chest, the graceful peaks and valleys of her nude body, as if designed by an architect.

I grab the arms of the chair for leverage and thrust my cock into her harder, so hard that she falls back against the chair with all her weight. This thing is going to break one day, I think.

"Oh God," she whispers in my ear, and I look down again, growing harder as I watch her pussy lips alternately turn inside out and disappear inside her again.

The seat back protests loudly under our combined weight, an ugly, squeaking groan that under any other circumstances would have made us stop short.

But not now.

I'm going to cum. I can feel the orgasm rising inside me, like a storm cloud waiting to explode with angry torrents of rain.

I fuck her harder, faster, listening to my own heavy breath, feeling her legs tighten around my waist and her hands squeeze my biceps. It's probably my imagination, but it almost seems like the chair is...

Crack! Thud!

The seat back breaks free of the chair and drops to the floor. Tim falls violently backwards, flailing her arms wildly for balance. The lurching of our bodies tips the chair to one side, and for an endless moment we are at a crazy angle and the room falls eerily silent before we crash to the floor in a heap, as I am bombarded by elbows and knees.

"Looks like your mother's getting her chair back," I say.

Steve's therapy, redux

2008-08-07T19:36:00.000-04:00

Monday, July 21, 2008, 7:00pm

Dr. Debra Sussman's office

After my illustrious attempt at therapy back in the day, I never thought I would be in a shrink's office again, but here I am.

"Steve, Felicia, come on in," she smiles, as if we were her long-lost cousins.

"Please call me Tim," she says.

Debra extends her arms to hug us, but we hesitate, and she ends up patting our shoulders. It's awkward.

The room seems made for calm reflection, from the maroon couch to the soft carpet and the nondescript wallpaper; though it manages to relax me, I forget what it looks like five minutes after I leave.

"So, what's up?" Debra says, placing her hands in her lap.

"We've been fighting," Tim says.

"Really?" asks Debra, raising her eyebrows, as if she were some kind of accountant or tax adviser who couldn't possibly help us. "What'cha been fighting about?"

"I work late hours at a restaurant in downtown Boston. I barely get to see Steve at all, since he works during the day, and he's really frustrated about it. He never gets to see me, and we're newlyweds, and he feels like we should be spending a lot more time together."

"Is this correct, Steve?"

"Yeah. But she didn't mention that she has wanted a chef job for a long time. This is her lifelong dream, and it's finally coming true, and she needs me to be more understanding about that. She loves me, and enjoys our time togther, but she also needs to be happy and fulfilled careerwise, and this is the only way she sees to accomplish that right now."

Debra looks at me, then at Tim, then back at me. The room fills with silence for what feels like an hour.

"Let me tell you something," she says, matter-of-factly. "You just stated each other's points of view perfectly. Know how I know you did it perfectly?"

We look at her.

"Because you didn't interrupt each other, and you didn't correct each other. Not once. I have couples who have been coming to me for 18 months who still can't do that. You did it the first day!"

She smiles.

"Can we go now?" I ask, and we all laugh.

"Steve, did you know what the hours were when she took the job?"

"Well, yeah, but--"

"So that's a yes?"

I know where she's going. I didn't object when Tim was interviewing for the job, so I have no right to object now. But that's an oversimplification.

"And Tim, you spent a lot more time with Steve before you took this job, right?"

"Yes! But he knew that--"

"So that's a yes also," Debra says.

Good! For a minute there, I thought I was being ganged up on.

"Steve, do you want her to quit?"

"No, I just want more of her time."

"How's she supposed to do that? She works late nights!"

Umm...

"And Tim, do you want Steve to just be happy with the way things are now? Are you happy with the way things are?"

I would really love it if Tim said the right thing here. I'm not going to lie to you: It's hard feeling like I've taken a back seat to my wife's career.

"I miss him," Tim says, looking sadly at me. "I know you might not believe that, Steve, but I miss you so much."

"Me too, Tim."

"So you want me to tell you how you can spend lots of time together while you both work full time on different schedules," Debra says, looking at us.

"No, I told you we were fighting," Tim says. "The problem is the fighting. We're not communicating."

"You're communicating fine," Debra says.

"We're communicating fine today," Tim says. "At home we're screaming and swearing, and..."

"Fighting is not a bad thing, you know."

"It is when it's taking over the marriage," Tim says.

Wow. These two aren't playing around. Better just stay out of their way, for now.

"Steve, do you agree?" asks Debra.

So much for keeping my nose out of it.

"Trust me. We wouldn't have gone to all the trouble to come out here unless it was an emergency," I say. "You know, I just wish--"

They both look at me. "What?" They say in unison.

"No, it's nothing, it was just something stupid."

"Say it," says Debra. "There's no judgment allowed in this room. There are no dumb statements."

"I was just gonna say, I wish we could both stay up all night and spend that time together instead of sleeping. But, I go to work in the mornings, so I have to sleep."

"Wait a minute," Debra says.

"No, I can't pull all-nighters. There's no way."

"You don't have to," she says. "Steve, what time do you get home from work?"

"I dunno. Six-thirty? Seven?"

"And what time do you get home, Tim?"

I see where she's going with this. I get home, eat something, and sleep for seven hours or so, then Tim gets home and we chill out until I go to work.

"You could just sleep when you get home!" Tim says. "Then we can spend time together!"

"I know. But that would screw up our body clocks big time, wouldn't it?"

"This is not a long-term solution, guys," Debra says. "But it sounds like you're not connecting, and you need more time together. Give this a shot. Stay up together and talk about your situation. Talk about your long-term goals as a family. Are you planning on having children?"

"Yes!" Tim says.

"You do realize it's going to get harder when you have kids, right?"

"We know," Tim says, looking at the floor.

"Spend an overnight together and talk about how you're going to fit kids into your schedules. That's your homework," Debra says.

"...I'm guessing Jay Leno is out of the question..."

2008-07-19T13:01:00.003-04:00

Marriage was supposed to end my story.

The fancy wedding was the final scene, after which I would say, "...and we've been together ever since." I was supposed to put away my bad habits like out-of-style clothes, and lead an uneventful existence until I the day I end up stuffed into a box wearing a fancy suit. But alas, things have happened.

Tim worked hard to find her job. She networked tirelessly, chased down endless leads, and tolerated every perverted restaurant owner who refused to even consider her for a chef's position because she happens to have a vagina ("You're cute! Why don't you work for me as a hostess? You'd make good money!")

She finally found a sous chef job in downtown Boston. It was far (35 miles), the pay was less than she wanted, and of course the hours were horrible, but she was thrilled.

I was thrilled for her, too. There was joy, pure joy, in her face when she told me the news. She was going to get paid to do something she absolutely loved. I was proud that she persevered, and impressed at how ambitious she was about it all. I knew she would have to work many late nights, including lots of weekends, but we'd find a way to spend time together. We were newlyweds, right?

As it turned out, "many nights" turned out to be five or six a week, "late" meant 1:00 or 2:00 am, and "lots of weekends" translated to every weekend.

At first, I felt better with a shower of kisses, an "I'm sorry, baby" and a cowgirl-style, middle-of-the-night fuck. But it got old fast.

When I wake up for work, she's still sleeping, and when I get back, she's gone, already on her way to the restaurant. I hate coming home to an empty house, with nothing for dinner and everything in darkness. I hate going to bed alone, as if I were a single guy all over again. I got married for companionship, and it feels like I never get any. Call me spoiled, or greedy, or whatever you want, but this sucks.

Tim tries to make it up to me. She didn't dare take a weekend day off for the first six months or so, but then she managed to get a Saturday and Sunday off, and took me to a bed and breakfast in the mountains, where we turned off our cell phones and she catered to me like royalty the whole time. She cooked me everything I wanted, paraded around in sexy outfits, and sucked and fucked me as if it were my last two days on Earth. I did feel a lot better after that, but she had to work 12 days straight to make up for all the favors, and nothing truly changed afterwards.

The argument goes something like this:

"You're never home."

"You supported my career choice; now deal with it."

"I didn't know it was gonna be this bad!"

Add in a few "bitch"s, "asshole"s and "fuck you!"s, and it's more or less a weekly conversation at the Caruso household. It's interesting, in a way, how we can make the exact same points so many times without resolving anything. It occurs to me sometimes that this is how marital problems get started. But that could never happen to Tim and me.

Could it?

Tim says I need to deal with it while she builds her career, since I spent many a long week building mine, and I remind her that I wasn't married or even dating anyone at the time. Every argument has a counter argument; every jab earns a jab in return. We are both too good at arguing, too good at turning things around on each other to make any progress.

Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen if we don't find any common ground on this issue. "If you want me to quit, I'll quit," she always says, but I know she doesn't mean it. If she ever left that job because of me, I'd never hear the end of it. I wonder if we would ever split up because of this.

The arguments keep getting louder, and the problem has infected other areas of our lives. On nights when she's actually home, we usually end up going to bed mad. At a party, if one of our friends mentions working late, we glare at each other. How much worse can it get?

"Why doesn't she just quit?" my brother Chris says. "Her marriage should be more important."

"Says the guy who's fucking around with some young hottie."

Yeah, he's still boning her.

"Different!"

"What about Tim's side? She'll say that it's just her being away from home, and that's not the end of the world either."

"You see your wife two days and two nights a week. That's not enough!"

Wednesday, July 16, 2008, 5:45pm
Steve and Tim's house

I've been in Cincinnati for three days on business. I am exhausted, physically and mentally, and glad to finally be back.

"Nice of you to come home," Tim sneers as I pull my suitcase through the door.

"Wow, three whole days alone, Tim. How did you handle it?"

"You mean three days since I had to do your laundry? And a sink full of dishes?"

"I left at three AM, Tim! How the hell was I supposed to do chores?"

She jumps up from her seat at the kitchen table. She's wearing a powder blue short-sleeve T-shirt that I've always loved on her. It's a little baggier since the breast reduction, but she's still sexy as hell in it. I'm smitten by her, even as she crosses her toned arms across her chest and looks lasers at me.

"Why are you traveling so much? I hate when you're not here!"

"You do, Tim? Why? It's not like you're ever home anyway."

"Don't be sarcastic. Your chores are your responsibility, and if you don't do them, then it's more work for me!"

The anger spills over inside me. She's reaching, looking for something to rag me about, probably so I can't rag her first.

"So leave the goddamn dishes and laundry then!" I shout. "At least let me get in the door before you start pestering me. Bitch!"

"Fuck you! You are such an asshole!" she shrieks, whipping a plastic tumbler at me. It careens off my arm, leaving a mark.

I grab the tumbler and throw it back at her as hard as I can, but she's already left the room. It bounces off the wall with a hollow thwok!

I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for my racing heart to slow down. I open the paper, but I can't concentrate. I might as well be trying to read Klingon.

I look up. Tim is standing over me, her beautiful face stony with anger. Or maybe it's disappointment.

Is this it? Is she leaving me? Is she going to ask me to leave?

"I want us to go talk to someone," she says, finally.

Lila and me

2008-05-30T12:32:00.004-04:00

A lot of you who contact me still ask about Lila. People in my non-blog life do the same thing. Hopefully, that means I've done a good job of describing her.

Lila and I are still friends, but we don't talk as much as we used to. Part of that is because I'm married, and doing all the things that newlyweds do. For Tim and I, a month without some kind of romantic getaway is an eternity. We're always visiting family, or eating at some new restaurant, or catching up on "our shows", and it doesn't leave much time for anyone else.

Sometimes Lila and I will text each other, or send a quick email to say hi. Occasionally, we'll talk late at night, like we used to. Beyond that, we go from one month to the next with little contact.

Lila's been with her boyfriend, Nate, for well over a year, and the more I hear about him, the more wary I get. At the beginning, he struck me as a cool, successful, well-adjusted guy and a great match for her. But as she's gotten to know him, he seems terribly insecure and needy.

The script was written long ago, and it's been played out more times than Hamlet, MacBeth, and Cats combined. Stop me if you've heard it:

Young man grows up and becomes irresistible to women. He beds one after another,
satisfying his every wildest erotic fantasy, having his way with any female within smelling distance of him. They simply can't keep away from him, and he's having the time of his life.

But there's a serious problem. With the ocean of testosterone flooding his veins, the only possible way he can quiet his voracious sexual hunger is to spray his manly fluids around like a lawn sprinkler, dousing as many women as possible. It's just a matter of biology, really: He simply can't control it!

But the women don't understand, you see. He only needs them for an hour or two, and they want more. Having experienced his rugged manliness, they fling themselves at him, clutching at his pant legs like sad children, begging him to remain in their lives, however superficially.

He could have these women any way he wanted them, of course. He could simply drop by their houses, unannounced, fuck them mercilessly, and then piss in their toilet bowls and leave without lowering the seats, and they'd be on his voice mail the next day, asking him to do it again.

But, alas, this is not how he wants it.

It would get complicated. These poor, naive girls, they simply don't understand what it is to be a man like our hero. They don't understand his need to roam the earth, fornicating with wild abandon. They would interpret his repeated conjugal visits as "love", or "commitment", or "lack of nausea", and soon after, the demands would start.

They will demand that he be exclusive. That he only date them, to the exclusion of all others, that he holster his babymaking weapon and only draw it for their benefit. Sadly, this is impossible, and our happy horndog rides off, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

You ought to know this story, since pretty much every guy between the ages of 17 and 35 has been telling it since the mid-70's. Nate is no exception.

At the beginning, Lila used to tell me about this mysterious guy who would give her a little head-nod when he walked past her at the gym. Sometimes he'd say hi. One day they were next to each other on the treadmills and he told her she had "great arms". It sounds corny, I know, but she wore tank tops every day from then on, hoping to impress him. As if she had to try.

I gotta be honest. Hearing about some young stallion macking up Lila made me jealous. I know, I know, I'm married, but I get territorial sometimes. I could see she was really intrigued with him, and it made me realize that both of us had moved on.

She would call me and wonder aloud if he noticed her, if he thought she was attractive. Was she serious?

"But I don't even shower before I go to the gym!" she said.

"Get a clue, honey. The guy is drooling over you."

She doesn't get it. Lila could go to the gym in a garbage bag, and guys would be tripping over each other to hand her a twistie-tie.

By the time he asked her out, she was about ready to rip of his Adidas sweatsuit and ride him cowgirl style on a weight bench. Call me cynical, but I wondered if this guy was a true player, or if he just lacked the balls to hit on her properly.

On Friday nights, he either played poker or went out drinking with co-workers, and every time she asked to come along, he'd give her a speech about "taking it slow". Pushing her away like that, giving her a challenge, made her want him ten times more. Guys didn't do that to Lila!

"Why won't he take me with him? Is he ashamed of me?" she would ask.

"Lila, do you seriously believe that? Really?"

"Well, why then?"

"He's either trying to play the I-don't-give-a-shit role to make you want him more, or he's afraid of falling for you. Or he's queer."

"Maybe he has another girlfriend."

"Then who needs him?"

The cool-dude routine faded away soon enough. After about a year with Lila, Nate was dropping hints about marriage. She was flattered, but she didn't encourage him, hoping he'd get the hint and slow down.

"He just asked me," she said on Thanksgiving night, and I could tell from her tone that she turned him down.

I figured he would dump her after that, but he didn't. In fact, he didn't even back off; if anything, he got worse.

After months of negotiating (or begging, depending on your point of view), he asked her again on Valentine's Day, and she said yes.

"Why can't you be happy for me?" she asked.

"Because you don't seem happy."

We fought about it, and I was secretly glad that she was unhappy, that Nate did not inhabit her the way I thought he might have. And I think Lila knew it.

A month or so later, she was calling me again, just like she used to, and she sounded sadder than ever. As part of Lila's "take it slow" requirements, they haven't set a date yet, and it's a constant source of irritation for him.

Now that they're engaged, he smothers her even more than before. He works out with her at the gym, rushing to her side any time a guy so much as says hello. If she's 15 minutes late coming home from work, he wants to know why, and he especially hates her talking to me.

She's not forbidden from calling, exactly, but I do get mysteriously cut off sometimes while talking to her. He trash-talks me constantly, asking why she wasted her time with me, and if she says anything remotely resembling a defense of our relationship, he flies off the handle. It's funny in a way: he's 30, ten years older than Lila, and yet she dominates him, like a young girl with her father wrapped around her little finger.

Even though I'd be jealous, it would still be nice to see Lila in something resembling a stable relationship.

And it would be nice to talk to her like I used to, too.

Open season

2008-05-28T07:22:00.002-04:00

Liz Trotta, Fox News Channel, 5/25/2008: "And now we have what some are reading as a suggestion that somebody knock off Osama, uh Obama. Well, both, if we could."

Mark Madden, ESPN, 5/22/2008: "I'm very disappointed to hear that Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts is near death because of a brain tumor. I always hoped Senator Kennedy would live long enough to be assassinated. I wonder if he got a card from the Kopechnes."

Mike Huckabee, 5/16/2008: "That was Barack Obama, he just tripped off a chair, he's getting ready to speak. Somebody aimed a gun at him and he dove for the floor.”

Interesting how these "jokes" always involve extreme violence and murder. Makes you think, doesn't it...

Okay, assholes, update time

2008-04-30T23:35:00.003-04:00

First off, for everyone who's been IM'ing and emailing, thanks for the good wishes. I've been married for--gulp--six months now, and I am really happy. I have to admit, I really hate that Tim works so many nights and weekends, but she loves her job, and as long as she does, I will support her.

After our one-year anniversary this October, Tim and I are going to try for a baby. I can't wait to be a dad.

I've decided to put Bismarck on hold. I'm not happy at all with where it's going, and I think I'll have to start over. All I can say is, it feels wrong to me. Many of you noticed the same thing, and of course, seized on the opportunity to rip me a new one for it. Why am I not surprised?

More later guys...

Stevo

Chapter 16: A (bare)Backstabbing

2008-04-27T00:10:00.003-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

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SugarKookie: he doesnt like using condoms

RedFoxx85: you let him bareback you?!?!?

SugarKookie: mmhmm

RedFoxx85: ur so bad

SugarKookie: it was soooooo nice tho

SugarKookie: o and his gf doesnt let him cum inside her

RedFoxx85: what? why

SugarKookie: she says its gross

RedFoxx85: dumb bitch

RedFoxx85: so u let him cum in you?

SugarKookie: mmmmmm, of course

RedFoxx85: lol, u like that dont u

SugarKookie: soo much

SugarKookie: i think hes breaking up w/her

RedFoxx85: seriously??

RedFoxx85: how cool would that b 4u

SugarKookie: totally

* * *

I'm not going to lie to you: My first impulse is to do nothing. Nothing, that is, except sit in front of the computer and ask "why me?" until I collapse from grief and exhaustion. I want to sulk, or cry, or put my fist through the bathroom mirror--but I have to force myself to even think of doing something constructive.

You probably think I am an idiot for the whole Jeopardy! thing, but it's actually helped me; I can't solve a problem in a second and a half if I'm not thinking about solving it at all. The Bismarck idea has helped me do that.

Suddenly, my apartment feels like a tomb. Nothing worthwhile will get accomplished as long as I sit here, overdosing on self-pity, burning hour after hour on the computer, hours that I'll never get back. How can anything change this way?

I want to be anywhere but here. I bolt out the door and into my car, dialing Stainer's number as I go.

Stainer barely listens as I tell him about the Bismarck revelation. He keeps staring down at his coffee and shaking his head slowly, like a disapproving parent.

"When are you gonna wake up, Eric?" he asks, finally looking up at me. "She's fucking this guy. She's fucking him! She's getting naked for him. She's sucking his dick! She's playing you! You busted her, and instead of doing something about it, you're talking about some damn game show!"

"Don't you think that--"

"Let me tell you something," he continues, "if my girl ever did that to me, I'd dump her cheating ass. I'd dump her, and then I'd go fuck every one of her friends just to make a point. No one does that to me."

"Emily is still having sex with me. It's not like I'm going without. If I break up with her--"

"Don't give me that!" he shouts. "You're looking for an excuse to stay with her, because you're afraid of being alone! Stop being afraid, Eric!"

I am afraid. But that doesn't mean it's right to let her go. I know Emily still cares for me; she must, or else she would not stay with me. She could leave me if she wanted, and she's not. I must be giving her something she needs.

I know it will be hard, but from now on, I'm going to think about this positively, like a problem that needs to be solved. And no, I'm not going to quit. I'm not going to let Doug win. I'm going to fight for the one I love.

* * *

The air felt warmer as I walked out to my car the next morning; for the first time this year, I was sure that winter was gone. Brilliant sunlight poured endlessly from a sky so blue that it might have been colored by a kid's crayon, and I decided right then that it was going to be a good day. I'd make it a good day, even if everything went wrong.

I sat in the car and stared out the sunroof for a long time, watching a single white cloud float lazily across the sky. I can't remember the last time it's been this perfect out.

This weather, this day, is just as much mine as it is Doug's. Or Stainer's, or anyone else's. I deserve it as much as they do. And not just that; I deserve success, and happiness, and money, just as much as they do. If I want something, I can go out and get it, just like they can. If I try to get something I want, and fail, so be it. But from now on, I'm always going to try.

After I put together that list a few weeks ago of all the new construction projects downtown, I created a marketing campaign for them. It was expensive--the glossy mailing sheets alone cost us over $1,000--and Todd hesitated a long time before saying yes. And now, almost a month later, we've gotten one phone call.

Though we have full-time reps who are fully capable, I usually handle the follow up calls on initiatives like this one. It's going to take me the better part of the day to call them all, but I'm going to do it. I'm going to keep pushing, focus relentlessly until the job is done.

"Eric, I was trying to enter a prospect in the database and the computer locked up again," Barbara says, standing in my doorway. "Can you take care of it?"

"I--"

"I'll be at my desk. Can you just let me know when it's working?"

Shit. This is what always happens to me: Just as I get going on a project, someone interrupts me and I get sidetracked. I'm going to spend an hour on the phone with tech support--

Wait.

"Barbara." She turns around.

"You don't need me for that. Just call tech support. The number is in the help menu."

"But Eric, I--"

"Barbara, you know more about the system than I do at this point. You can handle it."

She turns on her heel and huffs loudly as she leaves the office. She's pissed. But it worked! Now, for the follow-up calls.

Wait.

I have a lot of work to do. Manager work. If I could get an account manager to make the calls, I could have the whole day free.

I call Gordy, our best account manager, into my office and explain the project. His eyes get wider as he learns what kind of numbers are involved. "Eric, don't you usually call on these?" he asks.

"You want the commissions, right?" I ask.

"Depends. Is Todd going to want to pay the commissions?"

"Believe me. If you make these deals happen, Todd'll give you a blowjob."

"Tell him I'd prefer the commission."

Gordy bounces happily from his chair and off to his desk. My office falls silent, and I look slowly from one side of the room to the other, expecting a phone call, a problem, some type of emergency. But nothing happens.

So what the hell do I do now?

Chapter 15: Bismarck, North Dakota

2008-04-12T21:40:00.003-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

You don't pick your family. And friends are fine for poker night, or for helping you put up a garage door opener. But having someone you love the way I love Emily is all that truly matters. Emily knows that, and she thinks it's a big joke.

The seeds were planted years ago, before we even started dating. I showed Emily, in a million small ways, that I loved her too much, that I would tolerate neglect to be with her. That I would, just as Stainer said, rather have been miserable than alone. A small piece of her attention was enough to satisfy me. What's happening now is a direct result.

I was convinced that I'd never do better than her. Gradually, she learned that if she needed me, I'd be at her doorstep at a minute's notice no matter what my other priorities were, that she could puke in my car after a long night of drinking without any cleaning to worry about the next morning.

She'll never respect me, and I'll ache for her for the rest of my days. The only thing that will make me happy is Emily coming back, being mine and only mine. But she's found excitement now, true excitement, in the pursuit of a wealthy, desirable man who is just a bit out of her reach, the same way Emily is out of mine. She burns for him the way I burn for her; she lies awake at night, rehearsing every conversation, second-and third-guessing every outfit, just as I do, and now that she has tasted what Doug has to offer, I will never, ever get what I want.

I'm supposed to quietly shuffle off to my place at the back of the line and accept my fate. I'm supposed to passively absorb abuse until I finally die, get stuffed into a pine box and rot away underneath a couple of yards of dirt for all of eternity.

Fuck. That.

I can't have Emily. My job is a disaster. But, when I'm 85 years old, frail and desolate, sitting in a puddle of my own piss, it will be nice to know that at least I stood up for myself, that I didn't let some son of a bitch run roughshod over me. Yeah, I'm doing this.

I'm never getting away with it, though. I'm not one of these psychotic freaks with icewater running through their veins, who can look at you, stone-faced, and lie about killing someone. This will end badly.

I couldn't just kill Doug, then cruise back home and wash the blood off like a faceful of barbecue sauce after a messy picnic. I'm not capable of that.

It might be after my 9th green beer some St. Patrick's Day. Or it might be in bed, after Emily has made sweet love to me and told me that I could share anything at all with her. But sooner or later, the secret will jump out of me, and part of me will be glad, because I will need to hear that I was right and Doug was wrong, that he deserved it, that I am not a bad person, that--

Dammit. This isn't a fun train of thought. I need to be calm for what I'm about to do, not all sweaty-palmed and scatterbrained. I need a drink.

* * *

The midnight sky is more grey than black, and a cloudy mist rolls across my headlights like smoke from a brush fire. My windbreaker is suddenly not enough for the cold, and with shivering fingers, I turn up the heat in my car as high as it will go.

I've driven by Captain's 100 times, but never went inside before now. The closer I get to the entrance, the more I see why.

Captain's is a square yellow building which sits in the middle of a cracked patch of asphalt, between a gas station that went out of business two years ago and a check cashing place. It only has two windows, and they are so plastered over with scotch-taped signs that I can't see in.

The flimsy screen door slams shut behind me as I enter, and I'm met with the smell of buffalo wings and stale beer. A bare light bulb hangs over a pool table, its glow reflecting dully off the stained walls.

The stool creaks so loudly as I sit at the bar that I instinctively jump up, and a horrifyingly ugly woman behind the counter stops wiping the bar long enough to laugh at me. Doesn't ask what I want to drink, though.

This episode completes my humiliation. By this time tomorrow, I'll be in a morgue with a tag on my toe, or getting my mug shot taken. Most people in that situation go out gracefully; they find a halfway decent restaurant where they can enjoy a last meal, maybe even gather some loved ones to share it with. Me? I'm in a rickety old dump, alone, and hideous barmaids are laughing at me.

"Bar's almost closed," she says, finally, turning to face me directly. There's a huge mole next to the corner of her mouth, an orange knob that distracts me from her otherwise pale skin.

"I'll have a Kamikaze," I say, firmly. I've never had one before, but what better drink could there be for me now?

"We're all outta lime juice," she says, turning her droopy eyes up at me.

"How about a Screwdriver?"

She sighs loudly, whirls around, picks up an empty plastic jug and slams it back down. "All outta OJ too. Can't I just get you a beer?" she groans.

A Jeopardy! rerun blares from a TV set on a high shelf behind her.

Just perfect. A trio of nerds with photographic memories spewing out obscure facts, to remind me that, beyond my romantic failings, I am also intellectually inferior.

"This state capital was named for a famous German chancellor," Alex says.

A contestant named Greg rings in. "What is Bismarck, North Dakota?" he asks, and before Alex even tells him he is right, he's looking up at the board to make the next selection. I wish I could be that confident about anything.

He didn't think about the answer. He knew it, completely and totally, as if it were encoded in his DNA. Pressing the button on his controller and giving the correct question was a subconscious reflex for him, something he could have done while shaving or tying his shoes.

It seems to me that I could learn a lot from this dork. If I could have his confidence, maybe I wouldn't get stepped on so much. Confidence impresses people. They remember it. You become that guy, the one they better not try to argue with. And in real life, there is no game show host standing next to you with a stack of index cards to tell you you're wrong.

Wouldn't it be great if I could answer every question in the amount of time it took Greg to say, "Bismarck, North Dakota"? Wouldn't it become easy to silence every doubter, to solve every problem that came my way? If I could somehow manage to do that, I would become a completely different person. A guy like that wouldn't have to commit murder just to make a point...

...I need to go home and think.

Next... Chapter 16: A (bare)Backstabbing

Chapter 14: My fingers do the walking

2008-03-09T10:40:00.004-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

I swerve onto the Saw Mill Road, pressing harder on the gas pedal even as the rear of my car fishtails wildly.

I thought Emily would never leave. She was very cuddly after we did it, pressing tightly up against me in bed, her leg draped over mine. Luckily, she's helping her cousin plan a wedding shower, and has to be across town first thing in the morning.

"It's way closer to my house, otherwise I'd stay, baby," she cooed. "I'll be done around noon; can I come visit you then, so we can play some more?" she asked, and I grew hard in spite of myself.

I thought a lot about what I would do when I finally saw the hairless patch between her legs. I fantasized about the scene, saw myself wrapping my hands around her throat and squeezing until she turned purple, just like I did in gym class that time. Except, instead of letting go, maybe I would just keep squeezing until her body went limp.

There would be a deep sense of satisfaction in that, wouldn't there? It would be the ultimate I-told-you-so, proving to her, and to that cocksucker Doug Barrett that they badly underestimated me. I would make her pay for disrespecting me, pay with her life, and the weight of the guilt would crush Doug forever.

But in the end, my affection for Emily won out. She melted me with her sexy eyes, disarmed me easily with a gentle brush of her fingernails across my skin. "I love you Eric, I love you so much," she whispered as I fucked her, and I could barely hear her above the rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall.

No, I didn't hurt Emily. But I'm going to hurt someone. Doug.

I'm sure Emily hasn't shown him my picture. He wouldn't know me if I stood right in front of him and stared him down. I could do this. I could totally do this.

I make a frantic U-turn, barely touching the brake pedal, and head for the highway. I have an errand to run.

I drive 45 minutes out of the way to a Home Depot in Rhode Island.

I don't know how I'm going to do it, so I have no real idea of what I need. I'll just wander the aisles and grab anything that seems useful.

My heart pounds as I grab a five-gallon jug of bleach. It's more real now that there is something I can hold in my hand.

A reciprocating saw with an eight-inch blade. A 28-ounce steel framing hammer. A pick, a shovel, a giant blue tarp, and two wooden handles.

It's strange. As I look at the items in my cart, I see exactly how I'm going to do it. It's almost like I'm watching someone else shop, and trying to figure out what kind of project he's working on.

I see myself now, spattered with blood like a butcher, cutting Doug's arms off with the reciprocal saw, twisting and pulling them away from his torso as the last few tendons stubbornly stay attached. I can hear his bones crack and snap--it would almost be like cutting up chicken wings.

I can see his dead body beneath me, his blood-stained tie askew, the buttons of his shirt torn away, his hair a filthy, tangled mess, like a homeless man's.

Gonna get laid tonight, Doug? Gonna fuck my girlfriend, then brag about it to your buddies at the health club? I'd ask his corpse, grabbing him by the collar and screaming into his dead eyes. Are you--

"Sir?"

"Huh?"

"Can I help you find something? You seem--"

"I seem what?"

"Well, I--"

"How do I seem, Toby?" I ask, reading the name on his orange vest. "Tell me."

"Y-You just seem frustrated, sir, that's all," he stammers. "I just wanted to ask if I could help you find anything."

"Where do you keep the razor wire?"

* * *

I'm not stupid enough to look up Doug's address on my PC. I know just how I'll find it.

I was at a convention at the local Marriott a year ago, and I remember a bank of pay phones in a little alcove. With a local directory under each one.

I walk through the main lobby, trying to look inconspicuous, like a guest. If I do this right, no one will even give me a second thought. I make a right turn into the phone alcove and look underneath the first phone. Pay dirt.

Watch this guy be unlisted, I think, as I scan through the B's: Banet. Banks. Barnes. Barnett. Bartlett.

Shit. He's not there. I should have known that a well-to-do guy like Doug would never have his name listed in a phone book. I'm an idiot.

This whole thing is a joke. It's never going to work. I'll probably get there and find a huge cocktail party going on. It would be just my luck.

Wait a minute. I was spelling it with two "R"'s; maybe...

I scan a bit further up the page, and my lips curl into a small smile at what I see. The letters might as well be a neon sign, a giant, flashing reminder that I had no idea what I was capable of.

BARETT, DOUGLAS P 228 SADDLE HILL, WLLSLY

Next... Chapter 15: Bismarck, North Dakota

Chapter 13: Christmas in February

2008-02-10T23:08:00.001-05:00

Chapter 1 begins here

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Emily's period always ends on a Tuesday, and since today is Tuesday, she could be sleeping with Doug anytime now.

I don't talk to Emily every single day, especially during the week, so it's important that I don't keep checking up on her now that I know what she's up to. But how the hell can I stop myself?

I sit at my desk for eons, the phone staring unringingly at me, the hands of my office clock frozen in place. I straighten the adding machine on my credenza, then straighten it again, praying for a huge pile of work to spontaneously appear in my in box and provide a few hours of distraction. But no such luck.

It's 10:22am. I can't possibly sit here for another 6 1/2 hours, torturing myself about her. For all I know, they're going to sneak off and fuck each other's brains out in a supply closet at lunchtime. Maybe she wore that short little black skirt and high heels for the occasion, the outfit she used to wear for me, and maybe she's thinking about his cock right now, making herself wet with horny anticipation, and maybe my face will flash in her mind the second he penetrates her, not because she feels guilty, but because she wonders why she ever wasted one moment of her time with me.

That's what it's all about, isn't it? The pulse-pounding excitement of being with a guy who's drowning in cash, who's careful never to leave the house in wrinkled pants or to drive a car more than two years old. Women are wired to seek out men like Doug, men who can take care of them. Several million years' worth of evolution is pushing Emily to him, forcing her to think of him constantly, to throw herself at him, to acquiesce to his every demand, and to strike me completely from her mind, to delete me like an unwanted file.

"Todd, I'm not feeling well. I'm gonna head home. I'll call you later."

"We need placements, Eric!"

"We're working on it."

* * *

Why did I come home? There's less to do here than there was at work.

I shuffle down the hall to the bedroom, then back to the kitchen for a glass of water, and finally back to the bedroom again, where I watch myself sit down at the computer.

I can't. Once I click on that link, I'll check back every five minutes until I crash from exhaustion. I need to find something else to do--

I turn around and look under the foot of the bed, where the corner of a box sticks out. stmas, it says.

I pull the box out and lift the lid. It's my holiday skater set, a scale model frozen pond with magnetic figurines that glide around on the fake ice while Christmas carols plink out as if played on a toy piano.

The skaters calm me. No matter what is happening in my life, I've always been able to put my problems on hold over Christmas and New Year's, and although it's February now, I'm able to forget Emily's cheating as long as the music is playing and the skaters are skating.

Emily and I had a great time two Christmases ago. Our relationship really clicked. A day was an eternity for us; we couldn't go for more than a few hours without texting or calling. We obsessed over each other's gifts, spending hundreds of dollars we didn't have just to see that look in one another's eyes on Christmas morning as the wrapping paper came off.

We had non-stop sex, hungrily ripping each other's clothes off whenever we had a free moment, only to do it all over again a few hours later. And "sleeping" in the same bed was a mere figure of speech.

When I look back now, I see that those were the best days of my life. Work was quiet; my relationship was stable; I had everything a man could have wanted. I know I can never bring those days back, but at least I can make the present feel a bit more like the past.

I put the Christmas song playlist back on my MP3 player and set it for "repeat all", and as I inhale the sugary smell of my Christmas Cookie jar candle, I can feel the stress leave my body. Most of it, anyway.

With "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Frosty the Snowman" wafting in the background, I actually manage to get a few small projects done. For one thing, I made a list of all the new construction projects downtown; with so many new buildings going up, someone is bound to need temporary workers.

It's 5:30 now, and I think I'll shut it down for the day. Maybe I'll treat myself to something nice for dinner.

The phone rings. It's probably Todd, wondering how much business we've brought in today. Things are very slow, but at least I have the construction project list to tell him about.

"I miss you," Emily says. She wants to make plans for this Friday.

My heart flutters. She's still thinking about me. I know she's let me down before, but what am I supposed to do, give up? She's pursuing me!

It was only a sliver of encouragement, I know, but between that and the Christmas stuff, I'm happier than a kid who just cracked open a pinata. The days fly by, and before I know it, it's Friday night.

The night is perfect. We lay on the couch, her nestled against me, the room completely dark except for the flickering TV screen. She provides a running commentary on the movie, cracking me up just like she used to.

The credits roll, and my stomach churns with anticipation. It's been a while since we've been together, and my heart pounds like a jackhammer as I picture her naked thighs pressed against mine.

I watch intently in the half-light of my bedroom, absorbing every detail as she unhooks her bra and unbuttons her jeans, her breathing just a bit heavier than usual.

She lays down next to me, flipping her silky hair out of the way to kiss me, and I run my hand gently down her back, delighting in her supple skin and the soft, round curve of her ass.

I slip a finger under the elastic of her panties and slide them slowly down her legs. She rolls onto her back and her eyes flicker up at me at she spreads her knees apart.

I stare for a long time before I let myself believe what I see. But yes, it is true: The inevitable has happened, and the horror I feel will never be gone from me.

She is completely shaved.

Next... Chapter 14: My fingers do the walking

18 and... No.

2008-02-03T22:36:00.000-05:00

The unthinkable has happened. The NFC won the Super Bowl, and the 2007-8 Pats finally lost a game, and the worst possible game at that.

All I can say is congrats to the Giants, for keeping Brady off balance (and on his ass) for most of the game. It doesn't matter who your receivers are, if the QB doesn't have time to throw it to them.

To ease my sorrow, I'll be writing more, so keep checking back for more updates, guys...

Chapter 12: A Little Too Much to Bear

2008-01-19T22:21:00.000-05:00

Chapter 1 begins here

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I surprised myself the other night on Saw Mill Road, but in a good way.

I still feel guilty about killing the possum, but deeper inside me, beneath the guilt, there is something far stronger. As I drove away into the dark that night, my heart racing, the adrenaline rocketing through my veins, I promised myself I would never be a victim again. Not to Todd, not to Doug, not even to Emily. It felt good to assert myself. It felt... right.

* * *

"It's John Doyle from Carrano Construction," the voice on the other end of the phone says.

I already know who it is. I know what he wants, too: He wants some more workers, or "associates", as he calls them. The problem is, he owes Todd about $6,000 in invoices, and Todd lacks the balls to demand it. "He's good for it," Todd always says. "What, is he going to Florida with my $6,000?" But what the hell good is the business if we're not getting paid for it?

"I can't send you any more laborers until you get your account current, John," I say firmly.

Silence.

"Eric, I- I-can't pay you if I don't have any money."

He's breaking. I can feel it. This is easier than I thought!

"Well, we've got a problem then, because I can't send you more workers if you haven't paid for the ones you already had."

"Since when?"

"Since now," I say, and the confidence floods into me, just like the other night.

John agrees to send me a check for half his balance, and to pay the rest next week. Todd is going to be thrilled!

Fifteen minutes later, Todd calls me into his office. "I just hung up with John Doyle," he says, looking over his wire-rimmed glasses at me. "He's canceling his contract with us."

Shit.

"Todd, all I told him was that he had to pay his bills. Is that so wrong?"

"Did you know he was our first customer, Eric? Our very first one?"

"I--"

"And did you know that John lent me money to pay the rent for this office when we first opened up? That's how good he was to us. And now he wants to know why we're spitting in his face, Eric!"

"Todd, I didn't know! I didn't know any of that! I'm sorry!"

"Go home, Eric."

* * *

RedFoxx85: did u give him his welcome home present

SugarKookie: kinda

RedFoxx85: ?

SugarKookie: gave him a big kiss

RedFoxx85: aw how cute

SugarKookie: below the belt ;-)

RedFoxx85: you gave him a bj?!

SugarKookie: o yea

SugarKookie: trust me he wasnt disappointed

RedFoxx85: im sure

RedFoxx85: what was it like?

SugarKookie: salty :-D

RedFoxx85: no what was "it" like

SugarKookie: mmmmmm

RedFoxx85: nice huh

SugarKookie: hes not circumsized

RedFoxx85: nfs!

SugarKookie: ive never seen an uncircumsized one before. i kept playing with his, um

RedFoxx85: foreskin?

SugarKookie: i guess so ya, sliding it back and forth over the head

RedFoxx85: with your mouth?

SugarKookie: mm-hmm

RedFoxx85: nice!

SugarKookie: loved me playing with his foreskin - kept telling me to do it more

SugarKookie: and shoving my head down on him

SugarKookie: hes very bossy in bed :-)

RedFoxx85: so im guessing you two did the deed

RedFoxx85: after you warmed him up

SugarKookie: the red tide was in :-(

RedFoxx85: so??

SugarKookie: ew, not the first time!

SugarKookie: he did want to tho

RedFoxx85: i bet

SugarKookie: so i swallowed for him ;-)

Next... Chapter 13: Christmas in February

Chapter 11: The Saw Mill Road

2008-01-06T21:52:00.000-05:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

I slam Emily's door behind me and stomp angrily to my car. I start the engine and hurtle from the parking lot, tires squealing.

Saw Mill Road is a 15 mile stretch of highway which cuts a narrow path through an endless ocean of trees. There are three farms that I have counted, set so far back from the road that you can barely see the lights as you pass by.

At the beginning of the road, the street lights are about 300 yards apart, and by mile three, they stop altogether.

I call Saw Mill Road a "shortcut" between Emily's house and mine, but it actually takes longer to go that way. Mostly, I do it because I love a peaceful car ride.

My dress shirt is ruined, soaked with blood. I wrap an old t-shirt around my wrist to slow the bleeding, but it continues to ooze from my hand and onto my slacks; it feels like I spilled a half-hour old cup of coffee into my lap.

The cut hurts so much that I can barely touch the steering wheel. Hot jolts of pain shoot from deep inside the wound, coursing up my arm like electricity. I try to focus on the road, on the sound of the engine, on the thought of Emily--but the agony is too intense. It's as if someone drove an ice pick into my hand with a sledge hammer.

Pulling over would be a waste of time. There's nothing more I can do until I get home, so I push harder on the gas pedal and stare at the road as I pass under the last streetlamp and into the dark.

Fifty miles an hour. Sixty. Seventy. The whine of the engine grows insistently louder, like a 747, and somehow I can barely hear it above the screaming pain.

My headlights cut neatly into the darkness; if I look anywhere but straight ahead, all I see is pure black. I am focused on the rear view mirror when something jumps in front of the car.

It's a possum, I think, and it is as surprised as I am. It freezes in place, staring at me. I slam on the brakes, but I know it's too late.

The car hits the possum with a heavy thunk. I can feel its body bounce underneath the floorboard; the sounds are clunky and hard, as if I am running over a pile of firewood.

The shriek of the tires eventually stops, and I sit for a long time, wondering what to do. I've never hit anything with my car before. Do I just... leave?

I feel weird. I killed something. It was nothing more than a rodent, but it woke up today alive, and now...

I want to see it.

I turn the car around and flip on my high beams. The possum lays lifeless in the middle of the road, its body horizontal across the double yellow line. I watch myself get out of the car and close the door.

It's bigger than I thought, maybe the size of a poodle. With its gray fur and spiny tail, it looks like a giant rat.

Its neck is broken. The top of its head has been pushed back so far that it's almost separated, leaving the mouth wide open, like a snake with an unhinged jaw. I shiver at the sight of its pointed teeth and thick, pink tongue, and though I want to turn away, I can't.

This just proves what I learned earlier tonight: I have the power to change things. You might think I used that power unwisely just now, but I had it just the same, didn't I? Just like I had it with the vase--

The pain again, sharper now, burning my hand like battery acid.

I really should get home.

Next... Chapter 12: A Little Too Much to Bear

Chapter 10: What Would Stainer Do?

2007-12-26T21:20:00.000-05:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

I have been looking forward to my date with Emily for days. The week seemed to last a month, but it's finally Friday.

Stainer keeps telling me to stop spying on Emily. He says it's "creepy". He says I worry too much about what Emily, and everybody else, thinks. He says I live my life based on what others want, because I'm afraid I'll disappoint them and they'll leave me. He says I am a big baby.

You probably think I'm a coward for letting Stainer talk to me that way. Well, you're wrong if you think that. I don't need Stainer for friendship. I need to learn from him, and as long as he keeps trying to teach me, I'll keep listening.

I was happy to hear that Emily didn't like Stainer's cologne technique. It reminded me that he doesn't know everything after all.

He told me to be late picking up Emily, so I said I'd be there at 6:00, then deliberately did not show up until 6:30. It will be close, but we should make it to the restaurant on time.

I knock, and all the air rushes from my body as Emily answers the door.

She's in dingy sweats, with her hair twisted into a sloppy bun and held in place by a pencil. "What are you doing here?" she asks, glancing at my tie.

"I'm picking you up for our date, Emily! Why aren't you ready?"

"I have a huge project to finish! I left you a message at work!"

"Why didn't you call my cell phone?!"

"It was during office hours! I don't have time to call a thousand different numbers, Eric!"

My phone had been ringing all day. I stopped answering around 3:30, because I wanted to get my work done and leave. So I could get ready for my date.

She's going to see him tonight. She never intended to see me at all. Or maybe she did, but changed her plans as soon as he decided he wanted to see her. The outfit, the story about work, they're all part of an elaborate plan to trick me, a plan she will probably be laughing about with Doug later.

"You could've--"

"Could've what?" she hisses. "I called you at work! You always check your messages! Why didn't you check them before you left? It's common sense!"

I'd be a bit less humiliated if she apologized. Why won't she do it? Why is she so determined to choke every last bit of life out of me? How can she be so hateful?

The anger starts in my stomach, a fiery ball that grows, eating everything in its path until it consumes me.

I walk through the door. My eyes turn to the glass-topped table against the far wall. A chipped, dusty green vase filled with artificial flowers sits upon it.

"Eric, I have a lot of work to do--"

The bouquet was a gift from an ex-boyfriend, Chad, whom she "almost married", according to her. He moved away and left her years ago, but she still smiles wistfully when talking about him. And of course, she refuses to part with that hideous bouquet. It's almost as if she keeps the flowers just to mock me, to remind me that I am nowhere near the kind of man she truly wants.

Maybe Stainer was right when he called her a bitch.

"You don't appreciate me!" I say, finally.

"Eric, you're not listening to me. I told you I had to work! What am I supposed to do--"

I walk forcefully back toward the door, my heavy footsteps shaking the glass on the dining room table. My hand clenches into a fist, and I watch in slow motion as it smashes violently into Chad's vase.

The vase explodes into tiny pieces, and water runs down my hand. But why would she put artificial flowers in water? And why is the water... red?

"Eric! You're bleeding!"

Blood throbs from an open flap of skin between my thumb and index finger. I watch as it coats my palm, dripping from my hand and forming little red dots on the beige carpet.

Suddenly, it becomes clear: I don't have to just sit back and accept it when someone disrespects me. I have the power to do something about it. The vase angered me, and I destroyed it. My mind ticks off a long list of things--and people--who deserve the same, and, though I didn't think it was possible, my rage grows bigger and stronger than before.

No. I couldn't hurt Emily. Could I?

"Eric, you're bleeding all over my carpet!"

I lunge at her, and I am outside my body again, watching myself as I scream at her nose to nose. "You did this, Emily! You see this?" I yell, holding my bloody hand up to her face. "This is your fault! It's your fault!" I barely recognize the sound of my own voice.

"I'm sorry! Eric, I am so sorry!" she sobs, as I turn and storm out the door.

Guess I got my apology after all.

Next... Chapter 11: The Saw Mill Road

Coco the Ho

2007-12-20T20:49:00.000-05:00

Sunday, October 29, 2007, 1:00pm
Shadowfax Stables

Eating is an adventure without a gall bladder. In fact, it's less like actual eating and more like borrowing the food for a few hours before it shoots out of your ass as if blasted from a whale's blowhole.

Yeah, I can't eat like I used to. The doctor says I'll be back to normal soon, but until then, I'm staying far away from anything remotely unhealthy.

The post-surgery pain isn't bad at all. I have four incisions on my abdomen, the largest of which is the size of the memory chip slot on my cell phone. Most of the time, I don't even know they are there.

Last night, Tim decided I had recovered enough to resume my evolutionary duties, so she leaned over in bed and whispered softly in my ear until I was ready to go.

What she actually said is irrelevant. It's the sound of her voice, her closeness, the heat of her breath, that gets me off. She could have been reading a weather forecast; as long as she threw in a few cocks and pussys, I'd be hard enough to smash a plate-glass window with my johnson by the time she was done.

And hard I was--but mounting her and pounding away like a Rottweiler was a bad idea. As soon as the cumshot--and the flood of endorphins--subsided, talons of pain clawed at my intestines until I rolled off the bed and onto the floor in agony.

"No seconds for you!" Tim giggled.

So yeah, my return to, um, normal activity didn't go so well. But that was, like, 12 hours ago! I should be fine now.

Tim and I, along with four other couples, sit in a lazy circle and introduce ourselves before our horseback riding trip. "We're Adam and Kristen," a guy says. "We're from Boston."

I approach him as the horses are being saddled. "So you're from Boston, eh?" I ask.

"Well, Worcester, actually," he says.

Those of you from the area are cracking up right now. Massachusetts is small, and it's all relative, but a Worcester guy saying he's from Boston is kinda like going to Coney Island and saying you're in the Bahamas. It's like going to a carnival in a church parking lot and claiming you're at Disney World.

"It's easier to say 'Boston' than 'Massachusetts'", he says, noticing my grin.

It seems that Coco, my horse, is in just as much gastro-intestinal distress as I am. After walking less than 50 feet, she stops dead in her tracks and lets out a fart that could have peeled wallpaper--a rancid, rotten, barf-inducing cloud of stink that sticks to the back of my throat like Chloraseptic spray.

One hundred yards later, Coco has taken an unhealthy interest in the asshole of the horse in front of her, sniffing desperately at it like a cokehead trying to get the last few specs off a mirror.

"Pull back on the reins," Ana, the group leader, yells. "Show her who's boss!"

I pull back, and Coco dips her head angrily. We're definitely off on the wrong foot.

She stops again and drops another stink bomb, followed immediately by a series of wet plopping sounds. "She's using the bathroom," Ana says.

She shoulda gone before we left!

Coco has fallen behind now, and trots to catch up, zeroing in on her buddy's asshole like a heat-seeking missile. She nuzzles it, apparently too aggressively, and the other horse rears up on his hind legs, his rider clinging, terrified, to the reins.

The horse takes off like a shot and Coco springs into a gallop after him.

"Pull back! Pull back on the reins!" Ana shouts, but her voice is fading so fast I can barely hear her.

Coco's gallop bounces me violently against the saddle, my incisions screaming in agony as I strain to hold on. I'm not going to last much longer.

I'll hold on. I have to. People don't get thrown off horses!

Do they?

Coco sprints past the other horse and around a sharp bend in the trail. There's no way I can hold on.

The reins slip from my hands and the Earth turns upside down in slow motion. I hear a dull thud, and wonder for a second what it was before I realize it was me hitting the ground.

Ana rides up behind me. "You didn't show her who's boss!" she scolds.

I left my heart gall bladder in San Francisco Hawaii

2007-12-13T20:42:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, October 25, 2007, 8:12pm
Room 424

The operation is tomorrow morning at 7:30, so I can't eat anything tonight. Not that I am hungry, anyway.

A nurse came in about 15 minutes ago with a small paper cup full of pills. Whatever was in that cup made me forget all about the pain; now, all I want to do is sleep.

I'm a little cold, so Tim drapes another blanket over me. For the first time in what feels like 300 years, I straighten my legs out and my abdomen does not scream in agony. I take a deep breath, and it's pure relief.

I can't help but wonder what would have happened if I lived in a third world country, or anywhere with substandard health care. What if I had to endure this without hospitals or medications?

"...can come back first thing in the morning, before his surgery--" the nurse is saying to Tim. I had almost nodded off.

"I'm not leaving my husband," Tim says, firmly.

"He's fine," the nurse says, reassuringly.

"I know he's fine. But I'm not leaving him."

"You can come back in the morning."

"We've been married for five days; I am not leaving him. You can either get me a cot to sleep on, or I'll sleep on the chair next to him, but I'm not going anywhere!"

"I'll speak to the doctor," the nurse says, clearly annoyed.

Thursday, October 26, 2007, 7:27am
Pre-op

"You're gonna feel a little pinch," a nurse says, and inserts a needle into my left arm, next to the elbow.

I laugh out loud. After what I went through yesterday, regular pain is a joke.

"I'm giving you something to calm you down before the surgery," Dr. Patel says through his powder blue surgical mask, and injects something into the tube in my arm.

Whatever he gave me rushes to my head like ten shots of whisky. I look up, and the wall is... breathing, rippling before my eyes as if it were made of water.

"What is that shit?" I ask, and the doctor answers me in a faint voice, as if he's standing at the other end of a long hallway.

"I love you, Tim," I say, and the room goes black.

**********

"...hrtsdsntit..."

Voices swirl around me, and I struggle to focus on them. This must be what a bear feels like after hibernating for five months.

"Steve...hurts...it?"

I'm hearing every fourth or fifth word. I might as well relax until the drugs wear off.

I wonder where Tim is--

"I saw his eyelids flutter! I think he's awake! Baby? Can you hear me?"

Opening my eyes is every bit as hard as prying the cap off an old bottle of glue. But when I do, the first face I see is Tim's. She's smiling down at me, just like a blonde, ponytailed angel.

"Hi, honey," she says.

"Heyy," I slur.

"The surgery was successful. It took a lot longer than they thought, though."

"What time is it?"

"It's after noon."

Jesus.

"I'm sorry for ruining our honeymoon."

"Stop it!" she says.

Leave it to me to have a medical emergency while celebrating my nuptials.

Can you believe the stones on this guy?

2007-12-04T21:23:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, October 24, 7:00pm
Lahaina, Maui, Hawaii

All day, Tim and I have been spraying each other down with Panama Jack, downing colorful drinks by the pool, then rushing upstairs to rip each other's bathing suits off and fuck in every position imaginable. I could totally get used to this.

I am lucky to be married to such a horny woman. Most days, I wake up with her on top of me, sucking on my earlobe or reaching her dainty hand underneath my boxers. Yeah, sometimes, my cock wakes up before me.

We have been fucking nonstop since we got here. The weeklong holdout has worked wonders. No matter how much we do it, I feel completely backed up. But it's not just that.

Wedding planning is stressful. Bills are stressful. Work is stressful. We get a break here or there, get lost in a movie, maybe go to bed early every so often, but other than that, it never lets up.

But there is something liberating about flying 10,000 miles from home. It's not like taking a day off, and being 15 minutes from the office. Right now, I'm not even in the same hemisphere as my office. There's no possible way I can accomplish anything here, and no one expects me to. I've got a free pass for 10 days, and I sure as hell am going to use it. At this point, there isn't a whole lot to do other than eat, drink and fuck like inmates on a weekend furlough.

The concierge at the hotel had to talk us into going to the luau. We have not been doing many of the touristy things here, other than going to the beach and relaxing, and it's been sheer heaven.

The beach is completely dark except for a few blazing torches. A soothing wind blows softly against our skin, as if ordered by a considerate host.

A row of long-haired, ridiculously curvy, grass-skirted hotties stand flawlessly still, and then the music starts--loud, hectic drumbeats played by two men on either side of the stage, and the girls spring to life, dancing with controlled fury. I am amazed at how their hips move so independently of their bodies--and yeah, more than a little turned on, too.

"Should I get you a bib?" Tim asks, curling her lip at me.

"They're not that hot."

She rolls her eyes at me.

**********

Men with shovels surround a spot in the sand and dig furiously to expose an underground oven called an Imu. Reaching bottom, they pull a gigantic pig from the hole, and I can feel the blast of heat 10 yards away.

The closest thing I can compare it to is pulled pork. The meat is so incredibly tender that I almost don't have to chew it. I am full after the third heaping plate, but it's way too good to stop. When's the next time I'm going to be at a luau, anyway?

Wednesday, October 25, 2007, 5:07am

I sit quickly upright in bed, clutching my stomach.

The pain is on the right side of my abdomen, just under the rib cage. I've had it before, usually on mornings after I overeat. Generally, I take a Gas-X and it goes away in a half hour or so.

It feels like I have to shit, but I can't. I load up on Gas-X, and the pain doesn't flinch. It's all I can do to stand upright, as the pain squeezes down like a vice on my intestines. Hours pass.

"Can you come down and eat?" Tim asks.

"Do I look like I can eat?" I snap.

"I know it hurts! You don't have to be a jerk about it!" she hisses.

10:15am

Tim makes me a warm compress and I lay down on my left side, but the pain is no better. And it hasn't moved from that one spot, either, which makes me think that this is not just something I ate. I wonder if I'm getting an ulcer.

I take a hot shower, and it helps a little. Tim runs to the store and does some laundry, and we watch TV together for a while.

"I'm sorry you're so sick," she frowns. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Let's just wait it out."

1:00pm

I've been in pain for 8 hours straight, and it's gotten no better.

"I want you to go to the hospital," she says.

"What? We're in Hawaii!"

"They have hospitals here, Steve."

"Just give it some time. I'll be okay."

"Either let me take you to the hospital, or I'm calling an ambulance!"

**********

The emergency room is packed. After hearing my complaint, the triage attendant, wearing a worried face, sits me in a chair.

An obviously homeless man approaches the desk. "I need someone to wrap up my foot," he says.

Why? Aren't you gonna eat it here?

I focus on Randy, the homeless man, as he talks. And talks some more. He was playing Frisbee with his girlfriend Becka's brother, you see, because his girlfriend's brother thinks Randy is no good for Becka, and he's trying to loosen him up a bit--

It's no use. The pain simply will not quit. It keeps tearing away at my insides, as if I swallowed a bowl of broken glass. The only thing that helps a bit is leaning to the right in my chair and holding my left hand over my head. At this point, I'm probably competing with Randy for "Biggest freak in the ER" honors, and I don't even care.

I was right before about this not being a digestive problem. It's been far too long for that. Something is broken inside me. It's too high to be my appendix, but I wonder if it's a kidney. Or my gall bladder...

They finally take me to an exam room. A technician smears gel on my stomach and rubs a device the size of a computer mouse across my midsection.

"Take a deep breath and hold it," she says.

"What are you seeing there?"

"The doctor interprets the images. I just take them."

"But does it look like--"

"Deep breath and hold, please."

Every few minutes, someone pops into the room to ask how I'm feeling. I wish I could take something for the pain, or at least sleep. Maybe if I closed my eyes, I could nod off for a while--

The door opens. "Mr. Caruso? I'm Bonnie. From the business office. Your emergency room copay is..."

Is she seriously asking me for money? Now?

"I'm a little indisposed here. I'll pay on the way out, Betty."

"It's Bonnie."

Sure that's not "Bitchy"?

**********

"You have multiple gall bladder stones," Doctor Patel says.

"Am I... is that serious?"

"Your white blood cell count is very high. You should have your gall bladder out immediately."

"You mean you want to operate?"

"Yes."

Steve's wedding: The aftermath

2007-11-28T19:10:00.000-05:00

Sunday, October 21, 2007
Kahului International Airport, Maui, Hawaii

I've flown across the country lots of times. It gets easy after awhile: Do some work for a couple of hours, knock out a few crossword puzzles, watch a movie, take a nap, and you're there. But none of that prepared me for flying to Hawaii.

It's five hours from Boston to LA, and another five from LA to Hawaii. It's like flying across the country and back again all in one day.

In Hawaii, every local clock, as well as the position of the sun, tells us it is 3 in the afternoon, but our bodies are telling us it is 8:00 at night, and that we should be getting ready for bed. We should be fine tomorrow, as long as we keep ourselves awake for the next six or seven hours. Somehow.

After stepping off the plane, it takes us about 45 seconds to get Hawaii-fied. We deplane and walk 50 feet, turning left onto a long hallway with a floor-to-ceiling picture window, and I stop dead in my tracks as I look through it. To those who live in Hawaii, it's nothing. To me, it's a Rembrandt or a Van Gogh, a work of art burned in my memory forever.

Two palm trees stand side by side, bent slightly to one side as if curved by the wind. Behind them is a hulking mass of black rock the size of a strip mall. The sky is cartoon blue, a shade we might see in Boston once or twice a year, when the pollution takes a day off.

I used to think we flew halfway around the world, but that's obviously not true. Clearly, we've flown to another planet entirely, where no one stresses about the weather, because it's gorgeous every day. In fact, I bet no one stresses about anything here, because it simply doesn't make sense.

"...just gonna stand here all day?" Tim is asking.

"Hm?"

"Let's go get our luggage! I can't wait to see the hotel!" she chirps.

6:01pm
Makena Beach, Maui

I'm unprepared for the view. The horizon stretches endlessly from east to west--an uninterrupted meeting of sky and water so profound that suddenly, I can comprehend my place on earth, the overwhelming hugeness of the planet and everything beyond it.

Warm waves splash against my feet then retreat back, scurrying away from me like shy children. The sand is...cleaner here, softer, less rocky than I am used to, and the water melts it away around me until I find myself buried ankle deep in it.

Tim and I find a spot above the tide and sit, me leaning back against my elbows, her sitting between my knees, watching as the sky burns pink and orange and the sun slowly disappears into the ocean.

"I'm tired," she says.

"Don't go to sleep, hon. It's too early!"

"I won't."

Neither will I.

2:32am
Makena Beach

"Shit! We fell asleep!" Tim says.

So much for beating jet lag.

Steve's wedding: the duringmath, concluded

2007-11-20T16:00:00.000-05:00

"It is truly an honor for me to introduce to you for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Steve Caruso!"

Most people don't get applauded very often, and it is quite a rush. Kind of strange, too, since we didn't do anything particularly unusual.

Up until a week ago, our wedding song was going to be "Have I Told You Lately" by Van Morrison, but "Bubbly" by Colbie Caillat took a late lead, and we decided to go with it at the last minute. The tempo is odd and hard to dance to, but we aren't interested in much besides whispering to each other and swaying slowly, anyway.

The rest of the bridal party joins us on the dance floor. As the song ends, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around.

"You're my best friend," Paulie says, and I hug him back without looking him in the eyes, because I am sure he's sobbing like a kid going off to his first day of Kindergarten.

He lets go of me and hugs Tim, and I hug them both, and pretty soon it's the biggest group hug you've ever seen, right in the middle of the dance floor. Today, there is no family drama, no fighting, just lots of love all around.

Chris takes the microphone for a toast. "Steve and Tim are one of those couples that you root for, the way you root for a favorite team," he says. "We all noticed a change in Steve when he and Tim started dating. You could see how crazy they were about each other, even when they were saying, 'Ohh, we're taking it slow, it's nothing serious.'

"I speak for everyone in the family when I tell you, there were a lot of people praying for this. And today, Steve and Tim's wishes came true, and ours did too.

"I love you both, and I wish you a lifetime of happiness."

I get up and hug Chris when he is done, and laugh to myself as I think about the day not so long ago when I kicked his ass and put him in the hospital. It seems like a million miles away now; I feel as close to him as a brother can be.

**********

"I'd like to call your attention to the dance floor," the DJ says, "where the bride and groom have a surprise for us!"

People look up from their salads, then exchange curious glances. Tim has changed out of her wedding dress and into a slinky white one with a long slit up the side.

Before anyone knows what to make of it, the music starts and Tim and I are tangoing feverishly across the floor, amid hoots and hollers.

The tango was my idea. I suggested it months ago, and Tim loved the idea, so we hired a choreographer. Week after week, we practiced pretty much daily until we could do the dance in our sleep. Mindy told us that was the goal, to be able to go from start to finish without thinking about the next move.

We've had tons of practice, yes, but it's not nearly the same as doing it for an audience. The adrenaline is flowing, the spins are easier, our feet move faster, and we have to fight to keep from getting ahead of the music.

The song ends, we take a bow, and every guest is out of their seat, applauding thunderously. We bow again, and the applause gets louder before finally fading. Mindy said there would be a huge ovation. Guess she was right.

The dance is the one thing we hear about most for the rest of the night. Even now, weeks later, people still mention it to us. It just goes to show you: It doesn't really matter where the wedding is, or what you had for dinner. It matters who was there, and what happened.

**********

The limo is supposed to pick us up at 4:30 and take us to the hotel. That's only about a half hour from now.

People always talk about wedding night sex like it's a big deal. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm starting to wonder if I'm going to be fuck-ready tonight at all. I am exhausted.

We agreed not to do it for a full week before the wedding, to build a little sexual tension. We usually go at it once a day, sometimes twice, so at this point, I am ready to burst. But having the wedding stress off my shoulders is such a relief that eight hours of sleep might just make me come.

"Hey everyone," Tim says over the speakers, and I look to the front of the room, where she stands holding the mic. "I'm trying really hard not to be corny, but I'm very bad at this..."

What is she doing?

"I just want to say that I've been through a lot in the past couple of years, my surgery, getting a new job, moving, and it was pretty stressful, and I feel so lucky that Steve was there to help me every step of the way.

"Steve, I'm very sure I would not have made it through in one piece without you, and I'm so lucky to have you. You are the most caring, supportive person that I have ever known. I love you more than words can possibly say, and thank you for making me the happiest wife in the whole world."

She pauses as the "Awwwww"s subside.

"The night that Steve and I first met--and please, don't get the wrong idea about this--but I was on a date with another guy."

She pauses again as the room fills with laughter.

"It was nothing serious, I promise. The guy wasn't my boyfriend or anything. But I met Steve, and we talked all night long, and by the end of the night, I was a smitten woman.

"It was about 2:00am, and the place was closing, so the DJ played a slow song. And I wanted to dance with him, so I said, 'Ooo! This is my favorite song! You have to dance with me!' Meanwhile, I had never heard the song before in my life."

Laughter.

"So we danced, and it was actually a few months later when we actually started dating, and then one night after we had been together for a while, he said, 'Honey, listen to what I downloaded!' and it was the song we first danced to. And I was like, 'Awww!'"

I know where she is going with this now, and I am really flattered.

"I thought it would be nice if we played the song now, so we can dance to it again."

The DJ plays the song, "Sweet Bitter Love" (which is playing now) by Aretha Franklin. Somehow, as she sings, Aretha manages to convey deep love and deep sorrow at the same time, and I can't help but feel a bit sad myself, that this amazing party is almost over, and that it might be a long time before I see many of these people again.

But it's more than that. As I think back on that first night, it amazes me that Tim and I wound up together. I was dating Stephanie, she was with Dom. In fact, she probably went home with Dom and fucked his brains out that night, and many other nights before she and I finally got together. What if I never saw her again after that night? Just like that, she would have been out of my life forever, and this day never would have happened. It's sad to think that I could have missed out on everything we've had over the last two years.

I've been thinking about Mom a lot today too. Yes, I am sure she would have managed to make a scene somehow, but it would have been nice to have her here just the same. I was the only one of her three sons who she did not get to see on his wedding day.

The song fades out, and Tim and I goodbye our way around the room.

As we walk through the door, I turn and look one back final time at the festively decorated hall and the smiling guests as they wave us a fond farewell.

As Sam Malone once said, I am the luckiest son of a bitch on earth.

"I, Felicia, take you, Steven..."

2007-11-15T21:36:00.000-05:00

Saturday, October 20, 2007, 4:12am
Residence Inn, Room 2104

I'm late.

Holy shit, I'm late!

I snap upright in bed and frantically fling the covers away, grabbing for the digital clock next to me and knocking it to the floor.

I was supposed to be there at 10:30. And now it's... it's...

It's still dark outside.

I exhale slowly through puckered lips, as if blowing cigarette smoke. My nerves are getting the better of me.

I weave my way through the living room, around my sleeping brothers and friends, and manage to drink half a glass of water before going back to bed. I sleep for what seems like forever, roll over, and check the clock. 4:49.

11:10am
Northern Pines Country Club

"She's not ready yet," Chris says.

I peer out a heavy oak door and take a long look. Every ornate wooden pillar has been carefully adorned with tulips and silk bows; guests fill neatly-curved rows of antique chairs, and soft music plays over strategically-placed Surround Sound speakers.

It hits me that every one of those people are here for Tim and me. They all got up early on a Saturday morning, put on fancy clothes, and drove to a country club in the middle of nowhere to see us get married. If this many people care about me, I guess I'm doing all right.

"Steve, she's ready. She's ready!"

I take a deep breath and look at my watch. It's 11:21.

Chris and I walk out the door and across the room, stopping in front of a huge picture window which overlooks towering pine trees and an ocean of flawlessly green grass.

I look around, my eyes picking up friendly, familiar faces in the crowd: Aunts and uncles, old friends from school, and, in the front row, my dad.

I am so glad he got to be here, so glad that he lived when the doctors said he might die. This day would not have been the same without him.

He smiles at me and rubs at his eye. What a softie.

The opening notes of Kanon in D by Pachelbel waft from the speakers, and my niece MacKenzie bounds down the aisle, just like she did at practice, dumping handfuls of rose petals as she goes.

Next up the aisle is my best friend Paulie, striding purposefully, hands crossed at his waist, mouth and eyes turned downward, as if this were a funeral. He's probably trying to keep from crying.

Lila follows close behind him, a vision of beauty in her rasperry-colored dress, her long hair pulled up in an ornate bun, with one strand hanging down, just the way I used to like it.

Tim and Lila love each other. They have grown very close over the past couple of years, and we agreed right away that she should be in the wedding, as crazy as that may sound. With all the people that Tim and I have been with, Lila is the only ex here today.

She catches my eye as she sits down and gives me a bright-eyed smile, and I smile back. I wasn't always good to Lila, but seeing her face now, I know that everything is okay between us, and I am glad.

My brother Greg. He walks the aisle and takes his seat, waving sweetly to his daughter MacKenzie on the other side of the room.

Next is Tim's cousin, Ellie, who came all the way from California to be here. She and Tim have been close since they were little girls, and often called each other when they had no one else to talk to. As soon as we sat down to pick the bridal party, the first name Tim thought of was Ellie's.

Ellie is no waif. From across the room, she is all boobs and hips, and I am sure she will have her share of admirers at the reception. She takes her seat.

Next is Tim's sister, Drea, the Maid of Honor. A hush falls over the room as she walks past, maybe because it's almost time, and maybe because Drea is so beautiful. She really is like a younger version of Tim, except a bit taller, with darker hair. She walks with a straight back and a quiet confidence, like a runway model.

Drea is just 18, and therefore miles cooler than anyone else in the room, but she has been a huge help in getting ready for the wedding. Whether it be making phone calls, running errands, or reminding us about important tasks, she's been the Most Valuable Player for us. Thanks to Drea, the wedding planning was a lot less stressful than it might have been.

She walks past the chairs where the rest of the bridal party sits and stops at the front of the room, across from Chris and I.

As if on cue, the violins swell to a crescendo. Every guest in the room stands and turns around, and Tim makes her way up the aisle, her right arm holding her father's left.

The first thing I notice is her bare shoulders. The strapless, sleeveless gown was a great choice, given her long, dainty neck and toned upper body. Silk gloves stretch past her elbows, and she's holding a cluster of deep red roses.

The dress is smooth and blizzard-white, with a train that extends for a mile behind her. Her makeup is flawless, like a movie star's, and even from 20 feet away, my cheeks flush and my heart flutters at the sight of her denim blue eyes.

She is far too beautiful for words, so completely perfect that, if I drop dead this minute, my life will have been worthwhile for intertwining with hers.

The music fades. Marvin extends his hand and I shake it. "Congratulations, son," he says, and I am touched that he would call me that. He is not one to show emotion easily.

I take Tim's gloved hand in mine and it's almost as if I am in the presence of royalty, like I somehow lucked out and got to meet a celebrity.

"Hi," she smiles.

"Hi," I say back.

**********

The vows come and go quickly, so quickly that I barely remember them. But as the Justice of the Peace says "You may kiss the bride," I know that, at long last, we finally made it, that I did not screw this up, and that despite my past, I have a great life ahead of me. Applause washes over us and we walk triumphantly back down the aisle together, smiling and laughing.

Now, it's party time.

Steve's wedding: The duringmath

2007-11-14T10:21:00.000-05:00

Friday, October 19, 2007, 11:45am
Steve's office

"Steve, the implementation budget for Adams Corp. is gone," Ted says.

"Project isn't done yet, Ted."

"But the budget is gone."

No matter how long we stay on the phone, nothing productive will come from this conversation. Ted's call is a symptom of deeper problems.

Our salesmen use their considerable powers of persuasion to coerce clients to pay us huge sums of money. They are so driven to bring in business, in fact, that they sometimes do stupid things like lower the price. I have no respect for a salesperson like that.

Go ahead. Walk into a Lexus dealerhip and tell the salesperson that you really like the car, but you don't want to pay $70,000. Instead, you'd like to pay $40,000. I can tell you for sure you'd be leaving there on foot. You wouldn't get a deal like that, and you wouldn't expect to, either.

"Why do you care, Steve?" you are asking.

Easy. Because the price that the customer agrees to includes a budget for my team to implement the software. And the lower that number is, the faster we have to get the project done, and the less time we have to manage the details. Oh, and if there is any delay whatsoever, we are fucked. Just like we are now.

I was smart to get out of my last job. The hours were ridiculous, the work load neverending, and the politics overwhelming. But my new job isn't paradise either.

My team is going to end up finishing this project in a quick and sloppy way, and none of the time we work on it from now on will be billable. Unless, of course, the salesperson is able to get more money out of the customer, which never happens.

This kind of thing happens constantly around here. Because of that, sometime next January, Bert will call me into his office and ask me why my team isn't billing more. He ought to know the answer without asking. Or maybe he does know, but he's looking for an excuse to keep from giving me a bigger raise.

The funny thing is, though, I don't even care. It will bother me someday, but right now, work is nothing more than background noise. I keep repeating to myself, "This time tomorrow, I will be married."

Married. Married. Married. I think about the word so much that it seems foreign, unfamiliar. Marriage is for old, stuffy people, isn't it? Could it be that I am really going to do this?

Yes, it could, and the truth is I am so proud to be marrying Tim. I know, she had her partying phase, and she screwed around a hell of a lot more than I did--in fact, that is how I met her. But I sense a seriousness about her, a devotion to me and our relationship that I have never felt with anyone else. That devotion makes me want to do the same for her, makes me think of her constantly, fills me with the urge to grab hold of her and never let go.

Yeah, I definitely can't wait until tomorrow.

2:00pm

"Guys, I'm out of here. I'll see you in two weeks," I say, as I dash out the door to a wave of goodbyes and good lucks.

7:00pm
The Brown Stone House
Rehearsal dinner

Chris stands up and taps his glass. "The lone holdout is finally caving in," he begins, to a gale of cheers.

"Thanks for coming out, everyone. It's going to be a great day tomorrow, when my little brother finally gets married. I think you made a great choice. I think you both did," he says, smiling at Tim and me.

The guys are staying at a hotel tonight, and the girls are at my house. As I walk to my car, and Tim walks to hers, I quiver like a 17-year-old on his first date.

I look at Tim, at her beige blouse and blue skirt, at her long blonde hair and round blue eyes, and feel that rush of pride again. Tomorrow, she will be my wife. And yeah, the little boy inside my head wonders what she sees in me.

She hugs me and I close my eyes, inhaling her perfume, touching her silky hair. "You're nervous!" she laughs.

"Not as nervous as you!"

"I'll see you at the wedding," she whispers, and I watch her drive away.

Steve's wedding: The beforemath

2007-11-04T12:16:00.000-05:00

Thursday, October 18, 2007, 7:00pm

I'll say it again: I'm glad I waited a long time to get married. I got a lot of womanizing out of my system, and I am mature enough to make smart decisions. Like my bachelor party, for example. My one request was that we have it two days before the wedding, not the night before. I've seen my share of hungover grooms.

Tim and her friends rented a limo and took off for a night of bar hopping. As for me, my brothers and friends came to my house, blindfolded me, poured shots down my throat (it tasted like rum--whatever it was, it was nasty), then packed me into the car and drove for a while. When they pulled the blindfold off, I was at a VFW hall that I had never seen before. I bet they hired a stripper.

I hate strip clubs. If some hardbodied 19-year-old is going to wave her cleanly-shaved pussy in my face, she better be prepared to have my dick in her mouth as soon as I can yank my boxers off. But no, they smile, flirt, thank me for my dollar bill, and then bend over for the guy next to me. If I'm getting some at home, I don't need to see some other chick naked, and if I'm not, seeing a girl I can't touch is just going to frustrate me.

A mountainously fat tattooed man holds the door open for us. I guess he's there to protect her, but it's hard for me to be intimidated by a guy who probably can't even tie his own shoes. "So you're the lucky guy, huh?" he chuckles.

"Yep, that's me."

"No touching," he says, raising his voice to a harsh growl as he addresses the crowd. "And keep the noise down. You break the rules, we're outta here. And there's no refunds."

A door at the back of the room opens, and in walks Bree, in a "Hard Cock Cafe" t-shirt and pink short shorts.

By now, you guys know me. I like them tiny, with long hair and straight teeth, and Bree could not have been any better if I made her myself. She's maybe 4'10", with hair down to her ass, and a mouth straight out of a toothbrush commercial. The guys howl at the sight of her.

They plop me into a chair in the middle of the room, then form a semicircle around me. "Are you the one who's getting married?" she asks, in a high-pitched little girl's voice.

The voice puts me over the edge, and I go rock-hard despite the alcohol. She's just a kid, but she knows what the hell she is doing.

She pulls her t-shirt slowly over her head, exposing a plump, tanned pair of breasts, and proceeds to straddle my legs, brushing her long hair against my face. She turns around and wiggles her perfect bubble ass at me before bobbing it slowly up and down against my crotch.

I can't help but wonder what it would be like to fuck her. And I wouldn't mind seeing her naked--

She slips her thumbs under her shorts and slides them down, stopping halfway down her thighs, then bends over and places a hand softly against her right ass cheek. The guys are going crazy, but I barely hear them.

She steps out of her shorts and bends over again, farther this time, and her pussy lips open like flower petals. I ache to fuck her, to grab her petite little hips and slam them into mine...

She turns around and our eyes meet. I've got The Look now, the look she's probably seen 1,000 times, the look that tells her that I am hers. If a man has The Look, she could tell him to gargle with broken glass, and he'd do it gladly. And she knows it.

She sits on my lap, facing me, and tugs at my shirt. "Are you trying to undress me?" I ask.

"I like bare skin," she smiles, pulling my shirt off and flipping her hair over one shoulder. She bends over and nibbles at my neck, as my eyes slide closed and my hands find her naked hips.

My friend Paulie used to go to strip bars all the time. He even dated a few of the girls. He told me that his secret was not to hit on them, but to talk to them about their day jobs or their families. Every other guy in the place was telling them, in disgusting detail, exactly what he wanted to do to them, while Paulie was coming off as a regular Joe.

No, I'm not planning on nailing her, but instinct kicks in. "How old are you?" I ask.

She totally ignores the question, instead breathing in my ear. She bends her knee and rubs her leg agaist mine, closely enough that I can feel the heat of her crotch.

My breathing quickens; my hand squeezes tighter on her thigh. "You can touch it if you want," she says, and I look up to see her face so close to mine that our noses are almost touching.

"But the guy said--"

"It's okay," she whispers.

I don't want the guys to see. They'll see me do it and think they can follow suit, and pretty soon they'll get carried away, and she'll be out the door.

I let my hand slide down the inside of her thigh, and brush the backs of my fingers gently against her clit. Is this going to happen?

"Go ahead," she coos in my ear, as if reading my thoughts. I extend my index finger and all at once I feel her warm wetness. Am I really fingering the stripper?

She pushes her hips against me, driving my finger deeper, pressing my face between her tits. I remain there for a long moment and I can feel her breath, quick and shallow. Is she enjoying this?

I've been to plenty of stag parties over the years, and at the really wild ones, the stripper would disappear into the ladies' room, and a long line of horny drunk guys with $20 bills in their hands would form outside the door. I can't help but wonder how far this particular one would go...

The crowd is getting restless. "You better go make the rounds," I say, pulling my finger out of her, and she does.

She's gathering her clothes when Chris grabs me. "I've got a surprise for you," he says, and pulls me out the door and across a dark parking lot to a building the size of a backyard storage shed. "Wait here," he says, and walks out, pulling the door closed behind him.

Minutes pass, and the door opens again. "What am I waiting for?" I ask, and my heart stops as I see the Hard Cock Cafe shirt and pink shorts.

"Me," Bree smiles, and she closes and locks the door.

"Are you... are we..."

"You have really good friends," she laughs.

Chris must have paid her an extra couple hundred dollars to fuck me.

She peels off her t-shirt and straddles me, just like she did at the party. "You were hard before. I could tell," she smiles, flashing her flawless teeth.

Oh really? You knew I had an erection? Nothing gets past you, does it?

"Do you want to touch me again?" she breathes in my ear, and before I can answer, she takes my hand and guides it between her legs.

"We can't have sex," I hear myself say.

No way I'm fucking this little skank. I've never paid for sex in my life, and I'm sure as hell not starting two days before my wedding. Yeah, I know, someone else is paying, and it doesn't matter. It's an insult. What, I can't find anyone on my own?

Besides, it's not exactly appetizing to think about the three or four thousand scumbags she's probably fucked--bearded, beer-bellied truck stop types with cigarette breath, I'm sure--and she probably acted just as hot and horny for them as she is for me.

She looks at me.

"You're really hot," I say, "and I'm sure we would have a lot of fun, but..."

"You love her. You're being a good fiance. That's so sweet!" she chirps in her airhead voice.

I probably shouldn't ask her this, but I am loaded, and it is my party, so...

"Are you... do you still get paid if we don't..."

"Your brother said you were going to chicken out," she laughs. "So he made me promise that if you didn't..."

"That he was going to pinch-hit for me?"

"Mm-hmm."

I walk back out to the party and find Chris. "A prostitute at my stag party, Chris? A hooker? Really?"

"What are you talking about, Steve?" he smiles.

"I'm not fucking a whore, Chris."

He sighs. "Have you seen her? She's incredible! Did you look at her, or were you too pussy-whipped to open your eyes?"

"She's hot."

"Hot? Steve, she's the hottest little spinner I've ever seen! She's exactly the way you like them! What's your problem?" He fixes his dark eyes on me, his jaw set firmly, like a disappointed parent.

"Chris, you used to be a little more discriminating. This chick has probably seen more dicks than the urinals at Gilette Stadium."

"So I'll give you a dome."

"I'm not interested."

"You're my brother," he says, softly. "I want you to have fun. This is your last night of freedom!"

"I plan on having fun for the rest of my life. Oh, and by the way, I heard you're my backup."

He laughs. "Guess I better go."

"Hey Chris." He turns around.

"I want details."

"You got it, bro," he smiles, then turns and disappears out the door.

I love the Patriots, and you are a pussy

2007-11-02T21:12:00.000-04:00

I love the New England Patriots.

Let me say that again: I love the New England Patriots.

I love them even more now that being a Pats fan has become so unpopular. It's nice to know who your real friends are.

You're pissed that Bill Belichick broke the rules and videotaped the Jets. You're pissed that they rang up 52 points against the Redskins, and 149 points in their last three games alone. You're pissed that they leave their first string players on the field long after the games are effectively over, aggressively throwing the ball down the field on a never ending quest for touchdowns, pursuing points the way crackheads pursue little white rocks.

You like Peyton Manning better than Tom Brady. Peyton's commercials make you laugh. He's polite and respectful, and he's far too humble to take credit for his many accomplishments, instead crediting his teammates and coaches for the Colts' success. He even has the decency to be as ugly as a bassett hound, and to avoid dating underwear models, just to remind us that he's a regular guy, just like we are.

He's nothing like that bastard Brady, who clearly was not satisfied with merely winning three Super Bowls before the age of 30. No, Brady had to be good looking too! He insists on banging Hollywood actresses and Victoria Secret models, and getting his mug on the cover of GQ. Tom Brady is the kid in high school who outscored the geeks on the SATs, and then fucked his way through the cheerleading squad while the dorks were home studying.

Yes, Brady says all the right things. He deflects the praise, like Peyton does. He credits the coaches, and his teammates, like Manning. But you watch Brady. You see that twinkle in his eyes and that sly smile, and you know he does not believe what he's saying. You know he thinks he's the best thing to happen to football since instant replay, and you hate him for it.

You praised the Pats after their three championships. You had to. But you've always secretly looked for a reason to hate them and their golden boy QB. And lo and behold, along comes Cameragate.

You don't care that every other team probably did it. You don't care that the NFL commissioner himself admitted that the videotaping had no outcome on the one game in question. You saw the opening and you continue to pound away at it, even now, months later, after the punishments have been handed down and the league has moved on, and after the Patriots have run a train on everyone in their path since then--without the aid of videocameras.

You continue to call Bill Belichick a cheat. You continue to question past victories, including the Super Bowls, even though 100,000,000 people worldwide watched them and you still have zero evidence against the team. But you don't care, because you hate the Patriots and you always have.

So you watch the Patriots unblinkingly. You stalk them, searching for a weakness, because a weakness means that all is not lost. Every week, you manage to convince yourself that this game will be different, that this defense will be the one to finally slow the Patriots down, that the Pats will get complacent, that there's no way they can keep up the onslaught for an entire season without a single letdown.

You'll conjure up statistics to prove your point. You'll criticize past opponents, implying that real teams would have given the Patriots a harder time. But you know it's all nonsense.

You have always feared the Patriots, but you fear them more this year. This year feels different, and has since the preseason. They win Super Bowls with who-dats and other teams' castoffs; what will they do now that they are loaded with more talent than they ever have been?

You know what they will do. They will brutalize their opponents, humiliate them in their own stadiums, score touchdown after touchdown as the stands empty and the announcers whack off over the latest record that Tom Brady has shattered.

You whimper that the Patriots are classless, that they run up the score unnecessarily. You petulantly warn us that karma is a bitch, that their victims will remember and retaliate someday. You wonder aloud when someone will take a cheap shot at Brady, or Moss, and then secretly wish it to happen.

Of course, it never occurs to you that the Patriots were on the losing end more than any team they are crushing today. It was the Patriots who went 1-15 in 1990, 2-14 in 1992, and 5-11 in 2000. You forget that, not so long ago, one team after another visited the Patriots' slapdash, high school-caliber stadium, pounded them into submission, and left town laughing. You're witnessing karma now. You just fail to realize it.

If there is hope for you, it lies in the Colts. Eight weeks into the season, it is obvious: If the Pats don't lose to Indy, they will go 16-0. You can't bear to think of the headlines, the saturation coverage this feat would receive. So you obsess over the game, drown yourself in analysis, seizing upon any nugget which hints that the Colts will win, ignoring the tsunami of evidence that tells you you're wrong. You will hang your hat on last year's three-point victory over New England in the AFC championship game, impressing yourself with how Manning moved his team down the field, conveniently forgetting that he did so against special teams players and bench idiots, and that he did not fare nearly as well against the first string. Yes, the Colts won fair and square, but unless the Patriots defense takes a half off, there is no reason to expect a repeat performance. And you know it.

This is a violent game. Men get paralyzed playing it. Players grow old and wind up in wheelchairs, their bodies irretrievably ravaged and broken. It is a hard, unforgiving game, and should be played that way. Teams should try to score when they have the ball, and should do so aggressively, no matter how big the lead is. Mercy is for girls' softball. If it were any other team, you might agree, but you don't.

Keep hating the Patriots. Keep throwing things at the television and cursing as they gang-rape one team after another. Keep picking the Colts and telling yourself that they can hang with the Patriots, and when Brady is on the sideline, clowning with his teammates late in the game with a 24-point lead, turn off your TV and stop torturing yourself.

Of course, I'll keep watching.

T minus 7

2007-10-13T07:43:00.000-04:00

"Where's the contract? Steve, where's the contract for the DJ?!" Tim shrieks, shuffling through a pile of paper.

"I don't know, Tim."

"What do you mean, you don't know! You're supposed to be the organized one! This is the DJ for our wedding! If we don't find this, we're screwed!"

"Tim, we booked the guy three months ago. We paid a deposit. He'll be there."

Welcome to my life of the past eight weeks. Yes, Tim is the most beautiful, sexiest woman I have ever laid eyes on. She is also quickly losing her grip on sanity. I can't wait for our wedding to get here, not just because I love her, but because I don't want to duct tape her mouth shut.

We decided to keep the wedding small and cheap. And still, no matter how much time we devote to planning this five-hour event, we go to bed with a thousand details unattended to, and Tim can't sleep because of it.

"This is our one chance to get this right," she'll say, tears forming in her eyes. "If we screw this up, that's it."

I am so glad I waited until my 30's to get married. It made me realize that, whether the wedding is successful or disastrous, everyone, including us, will forget the details in a few years' time. We won't remember that the tablecloth did not match the flowers, or that the DJ pronounced Paulie's name wrong. And yet, these are just the things that Tim sweats endlessly about.

I tell her that this should be a happy time, that we should wake up thrilled every single day as we look forward to being husband and wife, that we are going to do something for each other that we have never done for anyone else, ever. I tell her I am excited because I know this is the first step toward our dream of having a family.

"I'll be excited after we cut the cake and dance," she says.

**********

"Hon, can you leave work early tomorrow?" she asks, as I stare at the TV.

"Hon?"

"What?!" I shout, then wheel around to look at her, and drop my Diet Pepsi.

In her underwear, she's as thin as an anorexic runway model.

"Jesus, Tim! You're wasting away!"

"I'm not that thin."

"You look sick!"

"Thanks."

She gained 10 pounds after moving in with me, which put her around 127. On her 5'2" frame, the result was curvy and delicious. She's at least 20 pounds lighter now, and believe me, her Angelina arms are not attractive.

"Seriously. Why are you losing so much weight?"

"If my wedding dress is too big, I can gain weight to fill it out. It's easier to gain than to lose."

"You're gonna make yourself sick."

"Leave me alone, please."

I realize the day is going to be here and gone before we know it. I really wish there were some way I could bottle it and save it, so I could sample it again in 20 years.

I've been thinking a lot about my life lately, about how far I have come as a person and how important this is for me. Ever since I was a kid, I have always wanted this, always envisioned myself married and having children. I am so happy to finally be going for it.

The only thing that annoys me is how I keep hearing the same jokes over and over: "Ready to take the plunge, Steve?", "Getting cold feet yet?", "Putting on the old ball and chain, huh?". Hilarious.

I would love to write more, but this is the busiest I have been in a long time. I'll try to check in briefly over the next couple of weeks, but it might be hard.

Wish me luck, thanks for reading, and I promise there will be more Bismarck when I get back home. With my new wife.

Sounds weird, eh?

Chapter 9: Neither Hair nor There

2007-10-04T07:49:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

I hate my hair.

Most males in my family are born with a shiny blond mop which darkens to a deep brown around age five, when the hair realizes it's no longer cute and politely vacates the kid's scalp. In my case, the blond never left.

In direct sunlight, it's bright yellow, the color of a Post-it note. I dyed it a couple of times in college, but that made it brittle.

I grew it long during my late-teen, I-hate-the-world phase. Combined with my six-foot frame, it made me look mysterious, maybe even intimidating. But the closer you got, the uglier it became. I had so many split ends that, if you grabbed a handful, it looked like a ball of frayed twine.

Emily says I have "Nordic" features. I assume she's talking about my blue eyes and thin nose, which are attractive in an understated way, like an evening news anchorman. Whenever a girl looks through my photo albums, she'll stop at any picture of me in a baseball cap and say, "Ooh! You look so cute here!", then sit quietly as she flips through the ones in which my hair is visible.

Around my junior year in college, my hair and I found a truce somewhere between George Clooney and Conan O'Brien. Most days, I part it neatly on the side, and comb it from left to right. I still don't like it, though, and it's a major blow to my confidence every time I walk out of the bathroom and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

If I am going to make myself over, part of the change should be physical. And if it's going to be physical, it ought to involve my hair.

Stainer says I am making a big deal over nothing. "If you're a good-looking guy, it helps, but if you're ugly, it doesn't hurt you," he says, flipping between football and hockey on my wall-mounted television. "Girls don't care about looks the way guys do."

"Then what's she doing with Doug?"

"Doug's got money and juice. It doesn't matter what he looks like. He's probably a fat, bald lardass."

"Thanks, man."

He's right, though. I just assumed that Doug was dashing and handsome, but I really have no reason to think so.

Stainer tells me that I need confidence, even if I have nothing to be confident about. "Did you put on any cologne today?" he asks.

"Um, yeah, I think so. Why?"

"One spray? Two?"

"One, I think."

"Come on, man! You gotta spray it like you mean it!"

He grabs a bottle off my dresser and aims it three inches from the top button on my shirt, then sprays frantically, as if I am on fire.

"What are you doing, dude?!"

He breathes deeply through his nose. "Ahhhh," he sighs. "Cologne smells differently on everyone, depending on their chemistry. That's why the cologne companies can't trademark their smells. You have good chemistry."

"So that's it? Just wear more cologne?"

"No. One other thing. When you make plans, stop asking her what she wants to do. Tell her. Don't ask!"

"But what if she--"

"Tell her! And stop playing with your hair!"

* * *

SugarKookie: so im going to top of the hub with eric on friday

RedFoxx85: with eric???

SugarKookie: yes ERIC... this is not a misprint :-)

RedFoxx85: isnt that expensive

SugarKookie: SUPER expensive

RedFoxx85: whats the occasion

SugarKookie: "he loves me"

RedFoxx85: pardon me while i barf lol

RedFoxx85: actually that is very sweet

SugarKookie: not sure whats gotten into him lately

SugarKookie: hes very... aggressive all of a sudden

RedFoxx85: ooo!

SugarKookie: no not like that... well maybe a little :-)

SugarKookie: he wanted to go out friday, it had to be friday, made me change my plans

RedFoxx85: doug plans?

SugarKookie: no i wouldnt have changed those plans lol

SugarKookie: oh and he smelled like he crashed into a cologne truck too

RedFoxx85: ew

RedFoxx85: y do guys do that

SugarKookie: no clue... cologne is supposed to be subtle, its supposed to make you lean in closer

RedFoxx85: i know eric always smells so nice

SugarKookie: get ur nose off my man lol

RedFoxx85: y do u think hes bein so aggressive

SugarKookie: dunno maybe he just subscribed to maxim

RedFoxx85: lol

RedFoxx85: u like guys with attitude tho dont u

SugarKookie: ya but thats not eric

Next... Chapter 10: What Would Stainer Do?

Chapter 8: A Double Decaf and a Skin Graft

2007-09-23T20:41:00.000-04:00

RedFoxx85: is he back from vacation yet

SugarKookie: no monday hes been gone 2 wks :(

RedFoxx85: is he takin you out when he gets back

SugarKookie: o yeah he and i have unfinished bizness ;-)

RedFoxx85: ??

SugarKookie: told him he had to wait until he got back

RedFoxx85: wait for what??

SugarKookie: O:-)

RedFoxx85: ooo, gonna give him a coming home present eh?

RedFoxx85: ur holding out a long time arent you

SugarKookie: he wanted to do it b4 he left

SugarKookie: says i am driving him crazy ;-)

RedFoxx85: isnt that the point

SugarKookie: exactly :-)

I have been sitting at my desk for two hours, watching the time change in the corner of my computer screen. I can't think about anything else besides Emily, but I'm not going to let myself cry.

Apparently, no amount of optimism, love, or dedication will stop Emily from doing what she wants to do. She is hellbent on destroying our love, on humiliating me in the worst way possible. When she finally goes through with it, it will be an agony that haunts me for the rest of my life, and she laughs with her girlfriend about it like a giddy teenager, complete with emoticons.

It's almost like there are two Emilys: The one who spent a romantic night with me two days ago, and the cock-hungry monster who hedonistically seduces men, treating her long-term boyfriend as a punchline. Sometimes I think about dumping her, but breaking up with the evil Emily would also mean losing the good one, and I can't bear the thought of that.

I wasn't a punchline the other night, when I choked her, was I? It strikes me how nonchalant she was about it afterwards; I kept apologizing, and she kept telling me not to worry about it.

It's strange. Sometimes, when walking behind her, I'll accidentally step on her shoe, and she'll scream at me. This was a hell of a lot worse, and... nothing. Makes you think, doesn't it?

My friend Stainer used to tell me that girls loved being treated like shit. I secretly laughed at him, because he didn't get it. No one liked being treated badly! Holding a door for a lady, saying "please" and "thank you"--these were things that made people feel good. Where could he have gotten such an idea?

But Stainer was with a different girl every time I saw him. A different hot girl. He'd get laid, and the next morning I'd see him on his way to the laundry room, his cum-stained bedsheets wadded into a giant ball. Hence his nickname.

On the one hand, his strategy should have failed miserably. But on the other, women were drawn to him. I never could reconcile the two. I wish I could ask him about it now--

Wait.

Stainer graduated two years ago and took a job as an EMT in Norwood, a sleepy, cul-de-sac filled town about five miles from here. I'll look him up!

* * *

"Your girlfriend is doing what?" Stainer asks, his face twisted as if smelling a dirty diaper.

I watch as he stirs three sugars into his coffee, then let my eyes wander to the long line of patrons waiting for lattes. I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story. I know he's going to rip into me for being such a loser, but it was a relief to tell someone how I was feeling.

He runs a finger across the rim of his cup as I talk. "You're spying on her with your computer?" he asks, finally.

"She's cheating, bro. Which one's worse?"

"If the bitch is cheating, dump her."

"She's not a bitch, Stainer!" I shout, and the elderly couple at the next table turns to look at me.

"Yeah, she is," he smiles, showing off his angular jaw and sparkling teeth. The girls at school always used to swoon over him.

"I'm not dumping her, dude," I say.

"Why'd you call me, then?" he asks, then searches my face for an answer.

He looks older than I remember him. The waistline of his blue Chinos has creased beneath his sagging belly, and I don't recall quite so many wrinkles across his forehead. But as he fixes his brown Latino eyes on me, his face commands attention and respect. I wonder what it's like to have that kind of control over people.

"I want to... make her sweat me. Isn't that what you do? Treat 'em like crap and make them chase after you?"

"Yeah, but..."

I look at him.

"I don't really do that anymore, Eric," he laughs. "I have a girlfriend now, and--"

"I'm not asking you to do it. I'm asking you to teach me."

"It's not like a home improvement project, Eric. I can't just teach you."

"Try. Please?"

He watches the steam rise off his coffee, then takes a noisy sip. "If you love her so much, then why do you want to treat her like shit?"

I knew this was coming, and I have an answer ready. "If it's between losing her and this, then I'll--"

"You don't want to be alone," he interrupts, smiling and nodding.

Maybe I don't. But what's so bad about wanting to be in a relationship with someone special? Who doesn't want that? Go to any bookstore, and the shelves will be lined with books about romance. How to find a relationship. How to improve a relationship. How to get more sex. How to get better sex. But how many books are there about friendship, or about being alone? Almost none, because those subjects are far less important to people. And what's so horrible about wanting to fix my relationship, about standing by the one I love?

"Do you like being alone?" I ask, careful to maintain eye contact.

"No, I don't. But you'd rather be miserable than alone."

I dislike Stainer's arrogance. He thinks he can figure me out over a cup of coffee, solve me as if I were a grade school crossword puzzle. He isn't even listening to me; he's just spitting out opinions, not considering for a single second that he might be wrong.

He annoyed me when we were in school. I remember now. I am a year older than him, and yet he talked down to me, the way you would to a nephew or grandson. Come to think of it, a lot of people speak to me that way. I'm tired of it.

The anger comes back. I can feel it as it descends on me, filling my body like an evil spirit.

I wonder what would happen if I snatched that bucket-sized cup out of his hand and tossed scalding coffee into his face. Would his skin blister and melt, like cheese on a grilled burger?

Unlike Doug, Stainer is here, right in front of me. I could actually do it this time. He probably doesn't think I'm capable. He isn't afraid of me. Well, maybe it's time for him to be.

Why couldn't I do it? Why couldn't I throw that coffee in his face, right this second? Yes, there would be consequences. But I guarantee you he'd respect me from now on.

"Eric? Eric!"

"Hm?"

"You're not pissed at me, are you? You look pretty mad."

Then it hits me. Yes, Stainer is an arrogant son of a bitch. Yes, he annoys me. But evidently, he has something I lack. So does Doug.

I said before that I wanted to learn from Doug, to capture whatever it is that he's using to lure Emily away from me. But I've never met Doug, and probably never will, so Stainer is the next best thing. He's got something I need, so I will try to tolerate him.

I wonder how long I'll be able to.

Next... Chapter 9: Neither Hair nor There

Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

2007-09-19T20:10:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

"Happy anniversary, sweetie!" Emily says, bursting through my front door with a heavy-duty paper bag in hand.

Emily and I don't mark anniversaries like most couples do. We celebrate ours on October 12, the first day I helped her study. Every year on that date, we order Chinese food, just like we did that night. Of course, we didn't start dating until long after our study session, but we agree that our relationship never would have happened without it.

I love when Emily visits me. Lately, it's the only time I can relax. I don't have to worry about where she's going, or what she's talking to Renee about, because she's right here with me. And, best of all, it's a chance to show her a good time, to prove that she doesn't need anyone but me.

I'm horrible with chopsticks. I drop the same piece of General Gao's chicken three times, then look up to see her standing over me. "You just want me to feed you, don't you?" she smiles.

"You're on to me," I flirt back.

"Can we watch this?" she asks, pulling a video from my shelf, and I agree before I even see what she's picked. I don't care if it's the most boring piece of Hollywood crap ever committed to film; as long as Emily curls up underneath my arm to watch it, I don't care. And sure enough, as soon as I hit "Play", that's exactly what she does.

The plot slowly unfurls. A 1950s detective is hired by a shady character to find a missing man. He questions a series of people, most of whom wind up laying lifeless in a puddle of their own blood soon after meeting him.

According to the digital readout, 63:42 has elapsed. I am interested in the movie, but far more concerned with the suddenly very clingy woman attached to my side.

86:27. The detective and a young woman dance, then kiss, then fall into bed, naked--and something goes horribly wrong. Their sex turns from passionate to intense to violent. She screams. There is blood--

Emily gets up to use the bathroom. When she comes back, she remains standing.

She's going to leave for home. Why else wouldn't she be sitting down?

It's after 11, and far too late to go see him. But then again, Doug and Emily don't exactly have a romance for the ages. It's pure lust, as far as I can tell, and I guess late at night is as good a time as any to have sex. Maybe she texted him from the bathroom to tell him she's on her way. Maybe he's growing harder by the second as he waits in horny anticipation for her.

She'll probably tell me she's tired, that she's got a lot to do tomorrow, that she can barely keep her eyes open. I'll offer to let her sleep here, and she'll refuse. "I'm okay," she'll say, and I'll watch from the front window as her taillights fade out of sight.

This is our anniversary. She's supposed to be thinking about me, me and only me! It's unfair! How could she bring herself to share a romantic dinner with her boyfriend, on our most special of days together, only to go to her boss's house for cheap sex afterwards?

I look down. Her cellphone is on the floor. She couldn't have texted Doug from the bathroom.

"Do you wanna come lay down with me?" she asks, sweetly, and I go stiff under my boxers. "Come lay down with me" has always meant the same thing.

This will be the first time we have made love since I found out. I'd like to say that it will be a relaxed, sexy romp between two long-time lovers, but it won't. This is the Super Bowl of sex, a pressure-packed test of my ability to please her. Whether I like it or not, I am competing against someone else now, someone who is almost definitely more experienced than me.

I stare at her face in the half light of my bedroom, watching her white teeth as she whispers to me, smiling like a little girl.

"Why have you been so sad lately?" she asks softly, tracing swirls on my bare chest with her finger.

"I miss you. I'm miserable when you're not with me."

"Yeah right, you probably have another girlfriend," she giggles.

"How could you say that, Emily? How could you say that to me?" I ask, sharply. We have been whispering up to this point; it seems like I was shouting, though I wasn't.

"I was just kidding!"

"I don't like the way you kid!

"Then I won't kid with you anymore! I'm sorry you can't take a joke!"

"Are you cheating, Emily? Do you have another boyfriend?"

Shock flashes across her face, then disappears so quickly that I might have been imagining it. "No!" she shrieks. "Should I be mad at you for asking?"

I shake my head no, and let silence fill the room.

She takes a deep breath. "I don't want to fight with you. It's our anniversary!"

"I don't want to fight either."

"You're so good to me. You make me feel special. You're the only one who's ever made me feel that way."

"Then why--"

"Why what?"

I have to ask her. Now seems like the wrong time, but there is really no right time for something like this. She's opened up to me now, maybe enough to be totally honest about everything.

"Then why don't I see you more often?"

I couldn't bring myself to say it. If I did, she'd come up with an excuse that somehow explained everything, then she'd rip into me for spying, and I'd have to suck up to her for months to make up for it.

"It's our busy time of year at work. It'll be over soon."

"Do you promise it'll be over soon?"

"Yes."

We kiss. All at once, I am on top of her, and our eyes close as I feel her tongue slip slowly into my mouth.

I pull away and watch in slow motion as I slide down her lacy pink panties. My eyes scan upward and stop between her legs, where I see...

...hair.

She definitely has not shaved recently. Emily has a thick bush, straight out of a 70's porn film, and it's just as full as ever.

"Haven't you ever seen a naked girl before?" she chuckles, as I stare at her.

Doug will not go near her unless she shaves, and she hasn't shaved, which means she has not cheated on me. This is ironclad proof. I wish I could shove those black curlicues in the face of everyone who tried to break us up. I knew I could count on her!

She hugs me with her arms and legs, pulling me tightly against her, burying her mouth in the spot where shoulder meets neck. I am almost outside myself, watching as our bodies mingle together, and out of nowhere the realization hits me.

This is all Doug's fault.

Emily loves me. She always has. But then Doug came along, with his powerful job and fat wallet, and convinced her that she was missing something.

She must have told him that she had a boyfriend, and he didn't care. He just dismissed me, cast me aside as if I were an annoying kid. I was someone in the way of what he wanted, and he thought he could just crush me under the weight of his huge ego. But he doesn't even know me! Clearly Doug has grown far too confident, and even if he lives to be 100, he will never respect someone like me.

But for all Doug knows, I could be a black belt. Or a gun nut, with an assortment of loaded rifles under my bed. Or, I could have a nine-inch hunting knife in my glove box. How can he be so nonchalant about this?

Yes, I'm being territorial, and I don't care. He is trying to take what is mine, and it's awakened several million years' worth of evolution in me.

I'm too passive about a lot of things. I've always been an easy mark because I didn't fight back. But what if I finally did?

I am just angry enough to hurt Doug right now. Maybe angry enough to kill him. If he were here, maybe I could rip his insides out and watch as buckets of blood gush out of him, just like those victims in the movie.

In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing Doug from behind, clutching a handful of his well-coiffed hair and yanking his head violently back as I slit his throat from one side to the other, feeling the warm rush of blood over my forearms, hearing the wet gurgle as he strains to draw a final breath.

Reality comes flooding back to me and suddenly I am back in my room. I can hear the grunts, which I barely recognize, though they come from my own throat, can hear the bed creak and groan frantically, like an old amusement park ride; and I can see my forearm across Emily's neck and her pained grimace as she tries desperately to breathe.

"Holy shit!" I say, pulling my arm off of her neck. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry about it," she says, pressing our lips back together.

Could it be she enjoyed that?

Next... Chapter 8: A double decaf and a skin graft

I TOLD SOMEONE

2007-09-18T10:48:00.000-04:00

You knew it was gonna happen eventually... no, not OJ being arrested again or Britney getting unhot.

I kept this blog secret from my family for three years, that's right, three, before I finally broke down and told my brother Greg. Why? Well, I was bored, and there was nothing good on TV...

The truth is, Greg reads a lot of books, and, no offense to you fuckers, but I wanted some feedback from somebody whose sanity I could verify. So, I gave him the link, and he looked around a bit.

I think he likes what he saw. Or, at least he didn't demand that I undergo psychiatric evaluation.

Greg just sent me a comment. Guess I'll post it here, since he's family and all... I asked him to send me a post every so often as well!

PS Keep readin', chapter 7 is on the way dawgs!

Stevo

Hey Stevie Yo what up bro- I have never posted before but figured I should drop in and say nice work, good stuff..... Greg

Chapter 6: Working for a Living

2007-09-13T21:16:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

You'd think a 25-year-old guy would love the independence of living alone. But lately, I hate it.

Anything more than 30 minutes in front of the TV makes me question the intelligence of the human race, so I usually wind up at my computer. Of course, these days, surfing the internet only leads me to one place.

It doesn't matter how hot the porn video, or how addicting the game. Regardless of what I am doing, my eyes flit nervously back and forth to that little icon in the bottom right corner of my screen, the one which tells me everything Emily said online that day.

I curse my lack of will power and tell myself that I don't care what her IMs say, but all the while I know I will fail. I will watch as my right hand, acting on its own, slides the mouse over and clicks twice, and my eyes will open wider and my mouth will go dry as I eagerly read, then re-read, every line of every conversation. And, depending on what words are on the screen, I will either soar with relief or wallow in agony.

I wake up earlier each day. After showering, I wander the apartment, cleaning sinks, toilets and windows that are already spotless, then stare longingly at my PC before forcing myself into the car and on the road to the office. My job has been the one thing keeping me from insanity since this happened.

After arriving at work today, I sat at my desk and looked out the window. It was still dark.

My company, High-Grade Temps, places construction workers and factory laborers in short-term assignments around Boston. Todd, who runs the company with his wife, Sheila, hired me as an account manager after I graduated three years ago. I majored in marketing, and this was really more of a sales job, but I saw the potential right away. Everywhere you look in downtown Boston, there is a huge, expensive, complicated construction project going on, and there are not nearly enough workers to go around. I was no salesman, but I didn't need to be. I never had to call around looking for business. Construction firms found me and begged for workers, sometimes telling me to name my price.

I had been with High-Grade for about a year when AtlantiCorps, one of the biggest placement firms in the country, opened an office ten miles from ours. Though they are based in Dallas, AtlantiCorps smelled the ripe Boston market half a country away.

Jared, one of my fellow account reps, was the first to quit. He refused to say where he was going, but we all suspected it was AtlantiCorps. Then, one employee after another followed suit, each submitting a formally-worded resignation letter that looked suspiciously like the one before.

I walked into the office one cold April morning, and the emptiness of the place hit me like a two by four. We had ten employees left, down from a high of 35. Atlantic had pulled our workforce out from under us.

Todd called me into his office. "Eric, we've lost a lot of good people. We need to recruit more account managers, fast. Neither Sheila nor I have time to run the day-to-day business here anymore, so we want to promote you to General Manager."

"Me? What about Gordy?" I said, instinctively.

The GM position would be challenging. Some problems would be out of my control. I'd be blamed for things I could do nothing about, and--

"Gordy's been here five months, Eric. We think you're the best candidate. And, of course, there would be a raise in it for you..."

AtlantiCorps did not offer me a job. They didn't even contact me. Slam-dunk promotions did not come along every day; I had no logical choice but to take it. Still, I waited almost a week to formally accept, and I only did it then because Todd threatened to look elsewhere. But I'm really glad I took the job.

I've learned a lot, and have served the company well. Show me a form, and I can fill it out in my sleep. Ask me a question, and I can answer it while doing three other things. My inbox is constantly filled with problems that others could not solve, and I love being the guy who can take care of them.

We're back up to 15 employees now, and yes, our overhead is a lot lower than it was when we had 35. But AtlantiCorps has taken a lot of our business away, too, so there's also a lot less money. Todd has been stressing about that quite a bit lately.

He continually reminds me that our account managers should average one placement per day, and that more than half of them do not. I reply that we're all working as hard as we can, that we're not out there partying. "I'm aware," he'll say.

I always thought Todd was exaggerating. But, last week, I realized just how bad things have gotten. "If the next six weeks don't pick up, we're gonna have to start layoffs," he said.

Summer is long gone, and that was our busy season. How the hell were we going to find new business now, in the middle of fall?

"We better find it somewhere," he said, and I noticed he wouldn't look me in the eye.

After all I've done for him, it would really suck if Todd fired me.

Next... Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

2007-09-09T13:01:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

"I found this on the printer. Is it yours?" Michelle says, placing two pages of song lyrics on my desk.

"Yeah, I made a mix CD for Emily and I was just... printing out the lyrics."

"Eric, can I talk to you for a second?" she asks, sitting across from me before I can answer.

I brace myself. She is going to give me an earful about Emily, as she occasionally does. She can be annoying, but I'm flattered that she wants to help.

"Eric, sometimes girls don't like so much attention--"

"I know you mean well," I say. "But you don't know the story."

"That's the problem. There's always a story. You're always... sucking up to her for some reason."

Michelle always seems to get away with her attitude. No one ever gets angry with her. In a way, I can understand it--Michelle is beautiful. How can I possibly raise my voice to her as I admire her flawlessly straight blonde hair, and her smooth skin, which manages a healthy glow without a speck of makeup? It's as if someone plucked her off a midwestern farm and dropped her into our office.

"Michelle, you don't understand."

"Explain it to me."

I don't know why she cares. The cynic in me wants to believe that she's just nosy, that she wants scoopage to share with her coworkers. But it doesn't matter, anyway. I have nothing to hide. I am proud that I found Emily. Why wouldn't I want to share our story?

I was Emily's RA in college. She came to me crying one day because she had a huge history exam and she couldn't get through her reading. So I sat down to study with her.

She would read the same sentence five times and completely forget it a minute later. I had her read it out loud, and she kept losing her place on the page. Finally, I read a few pages to her, and she picked right up on it. She actually had an amazing memory.

After that, I helped her study all the time. She would draw little pictures in her notebook while I read to help her comprehend things. I even read into a tape recorder for her sometimes, so she could play it back later.

Most of Emily's issues are workable when we put our heads together. I always try to think of things from her perspective, and act accordingly. One example is the CD I just made: It's a lot easier for her to read when she can hear the words at the same time. She loves music, so listening to a song while reading the words is a great way to sharpen her skills. Hence, my printout of the lyrics.

Michelle looks at me, expressionless. Clearly, she had no idea about this side of Emily.

"Did she end up graduating?" she asks.

"With honors. We found a method that worked, and that was all she needed. All throughout school, no one tried to help her. They just said she had ADD and put her on drugs. She told me I was the only one in her whole life who cared if she did well or not."

I wait for a response. I'm pleased with myself, because it's not often that Michelle is speechless.

"So then you guys hooked up?" she manages, finally.

But it didn't happen that way. Emily and I did not get together until after I graduated.

I was driving to work on an icy road one January morning, and the driver in the next lane lost control of his rented truck. He rolled it, and the truck landed right on top of my car. The airbag didn't deploy, and I got crushed against the steering wheel, breaking my sternum, along with eight ribs.

After a few days, the doctors and nurses tried to get me out of bed, but I wouldn't budge. They can't put a cast on broken ribs, obviously, and I was scared to death one of them would snap loose and puncture my lung or something.

Emily found out about the accident and drove to the hospital in a snowstorm to see me. She said, "I'm not leaving this hospital until you get up and walk," and then she smiled at me. I can still see her face now, her nose and cheeks red from the cold, her teeth just as white as the snow on the windowsill.

That smile was more powerful than any drug they could have pumped into me. Suddenly, I forgot all about the pain. I stuck out my arm, and she held it tight as I wobbled uneasily to my feet. "You did it!" Emily said.

A nurse stuck her head in the door, then ran to the nurses' station, shouting, "His girlfriend got him out of bed!", and the thought of Emily as my girlfriend made it a lot harder to stay standing.

Emily said she knew she loved me the minute I got out of bed and stood up. We've been together ever since.

I helped Emily when no one else would, not even her teachers or her family. I made her a priority, and she did the same for me when I really needed someone. She would not have done that if she did not care for me.

Michelle didn't know the story, and now that she does, maybe she will understand. But even if she doesn't, I don't care. I don't care if every single person I know hates Emily. I love her. And I am going to work just as hard as I did before to prove it.

"That's sweet," Michelle says. "I'm sure she cares about you, but--"

"But what?"

"She doesn't appreciate you."

"I should probably get back to work," I say.

Next... Chapter 6: Working for a Living

Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

2007-09-08T09:58:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

"What's this for?" Emily says, as I hand her an oversized gift bag.

"Last week you said you still had the same beach bag from high school, so I thought it was time for a new one."

"Oh, it's an L.L. Bean! And what did you put in here?"

"What's a beach bag without towels and sunblock?"

"You got me a bathing suit, too?" she says, pulling a black bikini out of the bag.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it!"

She twirls her long, black hair with two fingers, then slides it smoothly behind her ear. Her big eyes turn up to me with a flicker, and my knees go weak. She beams at me with the warm smile of a happy girl who knows she is truly loved, and I know right away that this was all I had to do; I just had to give her the attention she deserved. It's different now, I can feel it. Could it really have been this easy?

"I suppose you want me to model this for you," she says, holding the bikini against her torso.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

I haven't checked her IMs in a couple of days. I don't much care what they say, anyhow.

I have forgiven Emily for whatever she did with Doug, if she did anything at all. I screwed up, but from now on I am going to give her so much love that she couldn't possibly want it from anyone else. Isn't that what monogamy is all about? Being with the person who treats you the best?

The phone rings, and my blood goes cold.

It's 7:30 at night. The only person who could be calling me at this hour is Emily, and she never calls for idle chit-chat. Maybe she's going out with him this weekend, and she's calling to make up an excuse for why she won't be able to see me. Maybe everything I did for her was not enough. Maybe Doug's expensive car and fancy clothes excite her in a way I never could. Maybe he makes her laugh louder than I do, impresses her more than I do, makes her lip quiver harder than I do when they are in bed together.

At last, I force myself to pick up the phone. "Did you call that landlord yet?" Mom says.

I burst out laughing. I've never been so glad to get bitched out in my life.

I fall asleep in front of the TV and awaken to the phone ringing at 9:30.

"I'm going to Renee's house. We're having girls' movie night," Emily says.

"I--"

"You've been calling to say goodnight lately, so I just wanted to let you know I was going over there."

"I'll just call your cell," I say, more to hear her reponse than anything else.

"We're gonna be watching a movie," she says. "Plus Renee's having some problems and she's probably gonna be pretty chatty. So..."

"I can't even call you to say goodnight?"

"What's the big deal?" she snaps.

Her tone sets my anger ablaze; my fist closes tightly around the receiver and my ears burn with rage. I know I shouldn't do this, but...

"The big deal is that you are pretty unfair to me sometimes. I bend over backwards for you and you don't even appreciate it!"

"I thanked you for the beach bag!" she shouts.

"This is about more than a stupid beach bag, Emily!"

"Whatever. I'm hanging up. I'll call you tomorrow."

This was a huge mistake. I should not have let my anger get in the way; now, things are more complicated than before.

"I'm sorry I yelled. I love you, Emily."

Click.

* * *

RedFoxx85: why does he want you to shave?

SugarKookie: he hates hair down there. I dunno why but it freaks him out, he won't go near it unless i shave

RedFoxx85: so hes holding out on you? maybe he found out about your crabs :-D

SugarKookie: stfu lol

RedFoxx85: maybe he likes the preteen look. if he starts talking like elmo, run

SugarKookie: seriously i dunno what to do, eric asked me to shave one time and i said no

RedFoxx85: ohhhh, so now hes gonna wonder why you did it

SugarKookie: well ya...

RedFoxx85: didn't he just get you a bikini

SugarKookie: o yea!!! ill just tell him i shaved so i could wear the bikini

SugarKookie: i already put it on for him but it wasnt on long ;-)

RedFoxx85: u r so evil lol

Next...Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

Chapter 3: Stretch Goals

2007-09-06T12:20:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

SugarKookie: Good morning :-D :-D

RedFoxx85: how was it??????

SugarKookie: took me to his friends 40th bday party

RedFoxx85: hung with the old dudes eh

SugarKookie: i swear i was the oldest girl there

RedFoxx85: lol

SugarKookie: huge buffet, chinese food, sushi, open bar

SugarKookie: he got drunk, i had to drive him home

SugarKookie: in his lincoln navigator :-)

RedFoxx85: nfw

SugarKookie: way

SugarKookie: felt like i was driving a tank

RedFoxx85: so you drove him home...

RedFoxx85: and?!

SugarKookie: so how was your night O:-)

RedFoxx85: what happened????!!!

I can't read any more. All I want is to walk into the middle of that party and look at her, stare at her face endlessly until she realizes what she is doing. If I could just see her, talk to her, I know she would come to her senses. But I am powerless to stop any of this. It's in the past.

Now, I can only sit passively and experience every excruciating second of her betrayal, knowing that, although the pain is fresh, whatever has happened is done and over with. I can't change it any more than I can change yesterday's weather.

I sleepwalk through my day at work, watching myself like a disinterested third party as the hours melt away in a blur of phone calls and meetings. I go through the motions, say all the proper things at the correct times, but none of it affects me whatsoever. It's like eating a meal that I cannot taste.

"You still here?" Todd asks at 6:30.

"Yep," I sigh.

"What's wrong, Eric?"

I want to tell him. I want to open myself up and pour out every ounce of pain in my body. I want to scream aloud that I do not deserve this, and then I want to collapse into a blob on the floor, sobbing like a widow. I've been bottling this up for too long. I need to talk to someone.

But Todd is my boss. What would he think of me if he knew how upset I was? Would I seem like the kind of person who cannot keep his personal life under control?

"Nothing. Good night, Todd."

* * *

If I go home, I'm just going to end up checking Emily's IMs. I'd rather be anywhere else.

I drive aimlessly, angrily changing the radio station every time a love song comes on, until my car finds its way to my mother's house.

"Oh good. You can help me hang a picture," she says.

"Did you call the landlord to have that carpet stretched in your living room?" she asks as I hammer a picture hook into the wall.

"Not yet."

"You really should call. That carpet is buckled. Buckled!" she hisses, showing two rows of beaver-like teeth.

"I know, mom."

"Ugh. It's horrible! I don't know how you can stand that gigantic... bump in the floor," she says, running her hand over an imaginary mountain.

The bump is half an inch high. Actually, half an inch would be a lot. Coming over here was a mistake. Mom does not have much to do these days, so every mundane issue is magnified to 10,000 times its normal size.

In a way, it's good that the Emily thing is happening, because serious problems make me see just how insignificant the buckled carpets of the world truly are. If I can just resolve this, somehow, I'll be the most nauseatingly happy guy you've ever met.

"That picture is crooked! Look at it, it's all cockeyed!"

I push up on the bottom right corner. The picture moves a millimeter or two.

"Good?"

"It's all wrong. It's all wrong there. We've got to move it, honey."

Suddenly it hits me. I'll win Emily over. I'll woo her, just like I did when we first met. I'll surprise her with no-reason gifts, take her on romantic getaways, and lavish her with fawning attention. Why didn't I think of this before?

They say that men cheat for sex, and women cheat for love. After three years, maybe I'm taking her for granted. Maybe she's had one too many drive-thru dinners, and she's frustrated. I've been busy at work lately, but if I'm going to be serious about my relationship, I need to make it more of a priority. That's just what I'm going to do. Maybe this will work, and maybe it won't, but if we break up, I don't want it to be because of mistakes I made.

"Higher. Higher, Eric!" mom is screaming. "Hello! You're a million miles away!"

"Sorry, I was just--"

"Give me that," she snaps, snatching the picture out of my hand. "Never mind. I'll handle it."

"I think I'm gonna take off, mom."

"Damn carpet is two feet off the ground," she mutters to herself as the door closes behind me.

Next...Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

2007-09-03T08:03:00.000-04:00

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________

RedFoxx85: u still at the office?

SugarKookie: no he told me to go home and he would come by around 6:30ish

RedFoxx85: hes late...typical man lol

There's nothing for me to wonder about anymore. Emily is cheating. It must be a guy she works with, but I have no idea which one. I don't know her coworkers.

I want to talk to her, hear her say my name, listen to her voice to find out if it sounds different somehow. I want to tell her I am amazed by her, that she inspires me, that she has done so since the moment I first saw her on that Tuesday morning three years ago.

All Emily's ever had to do was tell me what she wanted, and I have gotten it for her. I want to make every single one of her dreams come true. Maybe all I have to do is remind her of that.

I call her. "Hi, gorgeous," I say.

"I'm really busy. I have this huge project to do for work. I'm probably gonna be up late."

My heart gallops, and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. She's lying to me, right this very second. Obviously, there is no project, and yet she said so with frightening ease. If I hadn't known better, I'd have believed her in a second. Since when does dishonesty come so easily to her?

For a frantic moment I can't think of anything at all to say, but then I catch my breath and realize that this is my chance to tell her exactly how much she means to me. I need to--

"Eric?"

"Yeah. I'm here. I just wanted to tell you you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"You're sweet. But I really gotta go."

I should hang up, but there is a question that I need to ask, one that I probably don't want to know the answer to.

"Who's the project for?"

"Doug Barrett, the CFO. I'll call you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"I love you, Emily."

"Me too. Kiss kiss."

I check back an hour later, and her screensaver has kicked in. She's gone.

So much for my plan.

While she's away, I set up an IM archive on her computer. Now, all I have to do is connect to her PC every night and download a file, and I can read every line of every IM conversation she's had that day.

Underhanded, you say? So is cheating.

* * *

I guess I know who the guy is now. And, contrary to what you might think, I don't want to run him over with a cement truck.

Though I've never met Doug, my imagination draws an exquisitely detailed picture of him. If I close my eyes I can see him, standing easily over six feet tall, with chestnut brown hair parted and combed perfectly, as if he had spent hours on it.

In my mind's eye, he wears an expensive olive green suit. With the way it is cut, and how it hangs on his lanky frame, it makes him look like an executive before he even says a word. Guys like me go to discount stores and congratulate ourselves for buying a perfectly good suit for $119.95, and we get by well enough with it until a guy like Doug comes along and exposes us for the wannabes that we are. We would look good in Doug's suit, too, but we either don't have the cojones to run up such a big credit card bill, or don't think we're important enough to need it.

I want to know everything about Doug. I want to know what kind of cologne he wears and where he takes his drycleaning. How does he answer his phone? Does he say, "This is Doug" with a helpful lilt, or does he spit out a harsh "Doug Barrett" which, just with its tone, tells the caller to get to the point, quickly?

I want to know how he caught Emily's attention. Was it just the suit and the cologne, or was it more? Was it the way that conversations fall silent as he walks by, the way that grown men smile fakely and make bad jokes to impress him? How did he make her overlook a serious relationship, a bond that we've built over three long years? How did he make her forget that trip to the water park last summer, when we rode the rides until dark, then giggled all the way home, exhausted, soaked and happy?

And dammit, how the hell did he make her lie to me?

I don't hate Doug. I want to learn from him. I want to know how he took Emily from me, and I want to do the same things he did, so I can win her back.

Next...Chapter 3: Stretch goals

Chapter 1: A Revelation

2007-08-30T22:34:00.000-04:00

Bismarck, North Dakota

An online novel by Steve Caruso

Dedication

For my wife-to-be--thanks for letting me steal the covers.

Chapter 1: A Revelation

RedFoxx85: r u gonna see him again?

I stare unmovingly at the screen. If I sit here long enough, maybe I'll get an explanation.

I'm not stupid. If someone is asking my girlfriend if she's going to see some dude again, it probably means she is cheating. When's the last time you asked a girl that about her boyfriend? "Oh, you've been dating him for three years? Are you gonna see him again?" Duh.

I have no idea who the guy is. I'm not even sure who's asking, though it's probably her best friend, Renee. She's a redhead, which would explain the screenname.

I'm going to have to figure this out for myself, too, since Emily doesn't know I'm watching. I'm at home, connected remotely to her computer. She was having PC problems a few days ago, and I decided to make the repairs from home. I don't sleep at her place very often; she says we're not married yet, so we shouldn't act like it. "I want it to mean something if we commit to each other long-term," she tells me. Why does that line suddenly stink like a week-old pile of dirty laundry?

To answer your next question, yes, I did tell her that I was going to access her computer from my house. She was concerned that, if I could connect to her machine over the internet, then others could too, but I explained that it was safe. As soon as I mentioned the phrase "IP address", she tuned me out, though. Clearly, Emily does not understand that I can actually see what's on her monitor, just as if I am standing behind her. And I'm sure as hell not telling her now.

The IM window is framed in white and pastel pink, like a little girl's Easter dress. Somehow, it has the same delicate charm and childlike innocence that she does.

Emily loves me. She tells me that all the time. There must be some mistake.

There must be.

The screensaver kicks in. It's getting late. Emily must have gone to bed.

* * *

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" I ask the bathroom mirror, practicing mean looks. But I don't know why I'm bothering. I'll never actually confront her.

I've gotten angry with Emily a few times, and it always unfolds the same way. I yell at her, she yells back louder, and then I feel like an asshole. My mind has a funny way of twisting every disagreement around to make it my fault.

Fighting doesn't accomplish anything, anyway. Why do people scream at each other? Has anyone ever made a good point while shouting? No, the real progress comes when everyone takes a deep breath and talks rationally. Anger won't let that happen.

A guy named Todd Shepard occupied the locker next to mine in high school gym class. He had an almost intellectual curiosity about torturing me, watching my face like an inquisitive infant as he blew his nose on my t-shirt or dumped the contents of my bookbag out on the dirty floor.

At first, I didn't feel I was in physical danger. Sometimes, after sweating it up for 45 minutes on the basketball court, he'd shove my face under his flabby triceps and hold it there until I'd had a healthy whiff of his armpit. Or, I'd lift a leg to put my underwear on, and he'd kick me to the floor. Embarrassing? Yes. But I wasn't going to die from it.

But one day, Todd wrapped his pudgy fingers around my throat and squeezed until I felt my knees give out beneath me and the room went dark. "He's turning purple," he whispered to himself.

I almost told my dad about it a couple of times, but I was afraid he'd think I was a weakling. So I told the gym teacher instead, and he was no help. "You're not going anywhere in life if you need me to solve your problems for you," he said, barely looking up from his newspaper. "You better handle it yourself." So I did.

If I didn't want to get abused anymore, I would have to be dressed and out of the locker room before he got there. So I turned myself into a one-man Indy 500 pit crew.

I wore baggy sweats and t-shirts that I could slip into easily, and hung them in my locker on hangers, facing the right way, ready to be put on immediately. I neatly placed my shoes side by side on the floor of the locker, with the laces loosened, so I could step into them without using my hands. I was a dissheveled mess as I sprinted to my next class, but Todd never bothered me again.

My story will never be turned into an installment of the "Karate Kid" franchise, but I found a way to solve a problem without fighting. I've always been good at that.

Next...Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

Happy Sunday

2007-08-19T18:53:00.000-04:00

Hello all,

I just read some of your comments about my lack of posting and I have to say... you are right. I miss blogging.

This site has helped me learn about myself and grow up. It's also helped develop my writing skills, and it's made me lots of friends. I was in a real groove for a while, writing 4,000 words a week.

But, the better the blog got, the more ambivalent I became. As far as I was concerned, my blog was better than a lot of the crap on the shelves at B & N, yet those writers were published, and getting paid for writing, and I was not. It was like John Mayer playing in his garage, alone, while Jesse McCartney signs million-dollar contracts.

I did have this one idea which would get me posting again, and would help my writing career.

I am hoping to start on my next book soon. It's a fictional story called "Bismarck, North Dakota". Don't worry, it's full of hot sex, voyeurism, and betrayal--all the shit you guys love. I was thinking about posting the story online a chapter at a time, for your reading enjoyment. Your feedback might help the story improve, and I would probably post very frequently as I got rolling.

Anyway, just an idea. Tell me what you think. And thanks for stopping by!

Stevo

Stevo, the anabolic blogger

2007-08-11T06:37:00.000-04:00

I'd like to congratulate Hank Aaron, the Major League Baseball career recordholder for drug-free home runs.

**********

Tuesday, May 29, 2007 (cont'd)
St. Francis Hospital

Forget taking a walk; Tim and I decide to head home. We'll call Chris to check up on him later.

"I don't... we don't... want you guys around here for awhile," Janet says later, over the phone. "It just seems like there's, um, always a lot of drama when Tim is around."

We sit silently for a long time. I can't believe what she's asking, can't believe she's blaming this all on Tim, can't believe Chris is going along with it. If he is.

"Put Chris on the phone."

"Chris agrees with me," she snaps.

"Can I speak to him, please?"

No sense debating this now. "Chris, go cool her off for a while and call us tomorrow."

"I think she's right, Steve."

**********

Wednesday, May 30, 2007,1:23pm

Webb Group Graphics

"Chris is in a meeting now. Is he expecting you?" a woman behind a desk says.

"No, I'm his brother. I'll wait."

An eternity later, his door opens. "Hello, Steve," he says cheerfully, shaking my hand as if I were a client.

We sit. As he closes the door, his smile fades. "Give me a couple of weeks. She'll calm down."

"This isn't Tim's fault. Why are you letting her put it all on Tim?"

"Because it was easier," he smiles. "They're women. They fight, and then they make up!"

No way. If someone doesn't put Janet in her place, she'll live her whole life thinking my girlfriend (and future wife) is a slut. It's Chris's job to tell her differently, especially since this was his doing--

"You want me to fall on my sword. Don't you?" he says, reading my thoughts, looking holes through me. "Steve, she doesn't want to hear it!"

"So wait a week, and then explain to her what a fucking prick you are!"

He doesn't flinch. Suddenly, I notice his high back leather executive chair. It looks brand new; he seems comfortable with his arms perched on the cushioned armrests. Did he have that the last time I was here?

"You gonna hit me again, Steve?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Depends. You gonna beg me to stop like a little bitch again?"

"Give me a couple weeks, Steve. It will blow over. I promise."

Someone knocks.

"Come on in."

Carol swooshes by me in in a pink sundress, and my heart pounds instinctively at the first glance of her tight butt. She asks him a question, then gazes admiringly at him as he answers, her eyes never wavering.

"By the way, this is my brother, Steve."

"I've heard so much about you!" she says, extending a hand. "So you're getting married, huh?"

"That's the plan."

Oh, by the way, did Chris tell you about how he grabbed my fiancee's ass? I'm guessing it slipped his mind.

She pulls the door closed as she leaves. "She's feisty, that one," he smiles.

"Hard worker?"

"I don't mean work-wise," he says.

"Another one? Dude, you have Irene--"

"Irene is out of the picture."

I won't preach to Chris. He wouldn't listen anyway. But it's tricky having a steady girlfriend on the side, and I'm not sure he can pull it off.

"You're very... pensive lately," he says. "You worried about me now?"

"I just--"

"You never did anything like this, did you Steve?" he says, sarcastically, and I notice his eyebrow again, cocked lower than it was before, his right eye narrowed noticeably.

"She is hot, I'll give you that."

"She says you're cute."

My heart leaps. It's nice to know that a young girl like Carol finds me attractive, even if I'm not going to do something about it.

"Really?"

"No, not really," he laughs.

Ending the drought

2007-07-16T21:33:00.000-04:00

June 27, 2003 (continued)
10:05pm

I have not had sex for a good two months, and the constant horniness is annoying.

Sure, I jerk off twice a day, and you might think one orgasm is just as good as another. But when a girl gets me off, it means she thought enough of me to strip naked in front of me, to kiss me deeply and hug me with her legs; it means she gave a shit about me, even if just for an hour, and it was important to her to satisfy me. No matter what anyone tells you, that is a powerful feeling--certainly more powerful than rubbing your cock until your hand blisters.

I laugh when guys talk about how they "can't go without it", as if they can get laid whenever they want to. Unless your name is George Clooney, you go through cycles where you can't miss, and others where you couldn't get laid in a whorehouse. No matter what some men say, all of us must endure our share of lonely nights with our dicks standing at attention. Luckily for me, my latest drought might just be over soon.

I knock on the glass door to the pool. Michelle stops and smiles up at me, two wet towels in her hand.

"You're late!" she smiles, opening the door for me.

"I got lost," I say, winking.

"You did? Ohhh, you're kidding me again! I never know when to believe you!"

She walks to the edge of the pool and peels off her Team USA shirt, revealing a tiny bikini top.

I didn't expect her to be so curvy. She struck me as the lean, athletic type when I saw her earlier, but now that she has stood up and turned around, I can see that I was deliciously wrong.

"You comin' in?" she says, and I barely hear her over the pulse pounding in my ears. I'm trying not to stare at her succulent ass, but doing a bad job.

"Yeah!" I reply, finally.

The pool area is completely dark --"So no one sees us," Michelle says--except for the underwater lights, which cast a warm glow around us as we swim.

"So how old are you? And where are you from?" she asks, and it dawns on me that I just met this girl today.

Her boyfriend graduated in May, and asked her to move back to Minnesota with him. She broke up with him instead.

"I'm only 19," she reasoned. "I mean, he was my college boyfriend. It wasn't like I was going to marry him or something." Her voice does not waver, but her eyes plead for me to agree.

If the guy was lame enough to ask some 19-year-old chick to move across the country with him, then I'm sure he cried like a bitch when she said no. He made her feel guilty, though they both knew it was the right choice. This is good news for me: It's a lot easier seducing a girl who is too young to be jaded.

"You did the right thing. You need to live your life. You both do! What was he, 22?"

She wants to know if I have a girlfriend, and if I've ever been engaged or married. I tell her about how Angie agreed to marry me, then unceremoniously ceased all communication, without so much as a "Fuck off and die". I love telling that story. It never hurts to look like an innocent victim.

It's 10:30. She's been working all night, and now she's swimming. Pretty soon, fatigue will set in and all she'll want to do is sleep. Time to make something happen.

You can't be too aggressive with a young girl. I swim to the steps and sit on the second one, looking over at her. "C'mere," I smile.

She sits next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. "I've never had a one-night stand before," she says, matter-of-factly.

My heart gallops. If there was any doubt that she wanted to fuck, it's gone now. And I haven't even kissed her yet.

Now that I'm taking a girl to my hotel room, the last thing I want is to run into my brother in the hallway. He and I would start talking, she'd suddenly feel dirty as hell, and next thing you know, she'd be high-tailing it down the stairs.

Chris's room is right next to mine. Luckily, I'm at the end of a hallway, so if we take the right stairway, we'll have no chance to run into Chris--unless something crazy happens, like him deciding to walk downstairs at the same time we're walking up.

We're halfway up the stairs when the door opens, and immediately I recognize the tattered shorts and huarache sandals.

Yep, Chris.

I open my mouth to say something, then realize that Michelle doesn't know Chris from Adam. If I keep silent, I might just get away with murder here! That is, if Chris knows enough to do the same...

He looks at Michelle, then back at me, then at her again. Our eyes meet briefly and then he is past us, covering his mouth with his hand.

We reach the room. "I want you to use a condom," she says, before the door is even closed all the way. Luckily, I have one in my laptop case, for just such emergencies.

You might think that not getting any for a long time would give me quick-squirt syndrome, but it's just the opposite. It takes me a while to get going, like a car that has not been driven all winter. A blowjob would be awesome, but I doubt this timid little college girl is going to go for that. I start to put on the condom.

"Don't you want me to suck your cock?" she says, with an innocent smile.

She wraps her lips around my stiff rod, and a shudder passes through me like electricity. She shields her teeth expertly, so that all I feel is the inside of her mouth as her head bobs up and down with agonizing slowness. Definitely not the first time she's had a dick in her mouth.

She reaches behind her back and her bikini top falls away, her naked tits tumbling out and rubbing against my grateful midsection. Her head sinks deeper, and deeper still, until I feel the back of her throat and she gags.

"You almost made me puke," she grins.

It's no problem. I've had all I can stand. If I'm not inside her pussy in the next 10 seconds, I'm going to explode.

"Do you want me to--"

"I want you to open your legs for me so I can fuck your tight little pussy."

She slips her bikini bottom down her tanned thighs and sits on the bed, gingerly spreading her knees apart. I watch myself enter her, listen to the wet sounds of our sex, smell our mingling sweat.

I bend over and lick her stiff nipple, and she grabs me behind the neck, mashing my face against her tit. I pull my head back and watch my hips rise and fall against hers, faster and faster, until I feel the wave rise within me. My cock is full, heavy, ready to burst with the full force of my lust. I ache to cum; I cannot possibly hold back any more.

I pull out of her and strip off the condom in one motion. Cum erupts out of me in spurts, onto her stomach, between her tits, into the hollow place at the base of her neck.

I linger over her for a long moment as we catch our breath. Yes, this entire episode was borne of pure lust, but unexpectedly, I enjoyed her company. Somehow I feel like... talking to her.

"That was nice," I say.

Head for in the mountains

2007-07-11T16:29:00.000-04:00

Friday, June 27, 2003

I've come to hate long drives. These days, most everything on my to-do list involves typing on a computer or holding a meeting, and I can't do either of them effectively in a car. I'd like to say that a long stretch of highway is a perfect place to relax, but I can't calm down at all; I just sit idly, waiting impatiently for the miles to go by, and watching the guy in the Four Runner next to me pick his nose.

My father's aunt Carol dutifully calls us on the first Tuesday of every month--first my father, then my brothers and I, in descending order by our ages. It's good being in the middle; when I'm tired of hearing about what was on sale at the supermarket that day, I can remind her that she has another call to make.

Once or twice a year, when my father can no longer shoulder the guilt she's heaped on him for not visiting, he somehow browbeats my brothers and me into a trip to the mountains. Telling ourselves that it will be different this time, that it will actually be fun, we load our car and pound due north until our ears pop from the altitude, where civilization stops and the road cuts a clean path through an endless sea of trees.

This is a great place to be for a skier. And if it's winter. Unfortunately, I'm not, and it isn't. If this area was going to be developed into a thriving city, it already would have been. But it hasn't, so until the next ice age, the "center of town" will be nothing but moose-themed gift shops and rustic bed-and-breakfasts.

I insisted on taking my own car this time, and dad told me I was nuts. But work is going well for me, and I have a lot to do this weekend. I really can't spare the time, so, at the first sign of lameness, I am gone--and, lame or not, this is the last time I'm coming up here.

The Twin Mountain Lodge
Coos County, New Hampshire
7:30pm

Dad tried to convince us to stay in one room, but we didn't. What, are we twelve?

I cross the parking lot toward the health club, with a cool breeze in my face. The western sky glows pink and orange, and I can't help but stare at it. I stop where I am and breathe deeply. Maybe this trip will suck less than I anticipated.

I mumble a hello to the girl behind the counter as I sign in, then turn back to look at her again.

Clearly, she bought her "Team USA" t-shirt before she became a woman. Now, it's a prop from a sexy calendar shoot, faded and stretched tight across her ripening bustline.

Wow! You guys sure take this Twin Mountain theme seriously, don't you?

I turn away and stifle a chuckle. "What?" she says, sheepishly. "Did I... say... something dumb?"

Obviously, the common sense train left the station without her on board. The girl has not said one word to me, so how could she have said something dumb? Not that I'm complaining...

"No, of course not. I was just... thinking of a joke." That's usually enough to make it go away when someone sees me laughing.

"Oh, what was it!" she chirps, sitting up straighter in her chair.

For a moment I'm lost in her flawlessly white teeth and huge blue eyes. Damp brown hair hangs lazily, covering part of her face. She's relaxed and sexy, the way your girlfriend looks after coming out of the shower. I have a hotel room here; I wonder if I could convince her to-

"Did you forget it?"

"Huh? Oh, the joke? Well, it's just kinda dirty, that's all."

"Tell me!"

This is a good sign. She's either a complete slut or not offended easily. At the very least, she'll be fun to talk to.

I tell her a joke. She chuckles loudly as soon as I utter the word "dick", though I haven't even reached the punchline yet.

"My God," she says, rolling her eyes. "This one time, I was at a party at my girlfriend's house, and I passed out in her room. And when I woke up, she was giving some guy a blowjob three feet away from me."

Okay, that totally was not a joke. And you know what? I want to get you naked anyway!

"And they asked you to join them, right?" I ask, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind.

Her face goes blank. "Were you there?" she says, and she seems honestly confused.

"What? No, I was just... kidding..."

"Ohh," she says slowly, obviously still processing.

Michelle is on semester break from college, working at the health club for summer cash. A steady stream of swimmers walk past us as we talk, dotting our conversation with thank yous and have a good nights. One man asks what time the pool closes.

"9:45," she answers.

"You're gonna let me come by at 10 though, right?" I ask.

"Umm, yeah, that sounds cool."

...To be continued...

Bad for Baseball

2007-07-09T12:46:00.000-04:00

I hope the stands are empty when Barry Bonds hits his 756th home run.

But if fans do show up, I hope that, when the ball lands among them in the bleachers, they avoid it like radioactive waste.

Of course, Barry's got his supporters, and they are more denial-ridden than a church basement full of alcoholics who can quit whenever they want. Their love of Bonds, or the team he plays for, blinds them to his desire to excel at any cost--to his health, to the kids who watch him, or to the game itself.

Bonds's defenders have heard the responses to the allegations, many from Bonds himself, and they repeat them dutifully. But they are either ignorant of the facts, or they hope that we are.

"Steroids don't improve hand-eye coordination," they tell us, "and steroids don't make you see the ball better or swing the bat faster." No, and robbing a bank doesn't improve your credit rating, either. But it does provide a pile of tax-free cash that any self-respecting criminal would drool over. Steroids provide major benefits for those stupid enough to use them; to pretend otherwise is disingenuous.

We can learn a lot from men like Lou Ferrigno and Lyle Alzado, who have spoken openly about their steroid use. Steroid users are so driven to win that they are willing to to break the law and the rules of their sport--and to pay with their long-term health--for an extra few pounds on a bench press, or 1/10th of a second in a footrace, or, yes, for another 30 feet on a fly ball.

They also speak of personality changes. Their confidence seems to grow along with their muscle mass, providing a mental edge to match the physical one. We've all seen that guy at the gym, the one whose biceps popped seemingly overnight, who suddenly had no problem hitting on the chick behind the counter, even though her six-foot-four, 265-pound husband owned the place.

Steroids aren't magic. They won't turn Peter Gammons into Pete Rose. What they will do is turn a long fly out into an easy home run. That little nudge was all it took: Suddenly, players who previously only had warning track power were approaching, or besting, the single-season home run totals of guys named Ruth and Maris.

Don't believe me? Think all these home run hitters were on the level? In that case, I guess it's just a coincidence that the Luis Gonzalezes and Sammy Sosas of the world were putting balls on the moon by the bucketload--until baseball outlawed steroids. Now, they're all mortal again, and they want me to believe that the spike in production was just random chance. I don't buy it.

Like any great outrage, there is more than one party at fault. The egotistical, hyper-competitive players could not have gotten away with this had it not been for teammates and managers who loved the stratospheric offense too much to object in any way.

The owners aren't blind either. They read the papers just like you do, they saw the bloated stats, and they drew the same conclusion that any half-witted twelve-year-old could have. And then they did nothing.

Voltaire said, "Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do." In the interest of fairness, and the health of its players, major league baseball leadership should have pushed hard for a comprehensive, all-encompassing steroid ban as soon as the problem became embarrassingly obvious. Sure, the MLB players' association, by many accounts the strongest union in American history, would have made that a difficult, if not impossible task. But the owners should have fought for it. They didn't.

I am asking for something unrealistic, you are saying. No sport would ever do such a thing. But you're wrong.

Funny, isn't it, how we never see NFL kickers booting 73-yard field goals or 90-yard punts. We don't see running backs vaulting into the end zone from the 7-yard line. We hardly ever hear NFL steroid allegations at all. That's because the game has cracked down on illegal drug use, and created a meaningful test program with harsh penalties. Todd Sauerbrun, a punter for the Denver Broncos, was suspended for four games - four - for taking a diet pill which was sold over-the-counter. We regularly hear of similar suspensions, for marijuana and other drugs, by the NFL, long suspensions which cut deeply into a player's paycheck. When's the last time a baseball player was suspended for a drug violation?

And the NFL is not alone. Immediately after competing, Olympic athletes are led to a room where an official watches them urinate into a cup, so they can be drug tested. Medals and world-records are routinely stripped from offenders. Think Bonds is in any similar danger?

I don't care that I am experiencing "baseball history". This is not a heartwarming story. This is the story of an already-great player, for whom mere greatness was no longer enough. I hate what Barry Bonds has done to baseball, and what baseball, in turn, has done to us.

Paying the Piper

2007-06-15T21:19:00.000-04:00

Tuesday, May 29, 2007, 11:59am
St. Francis Hospital

So much for me going to work. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate, anyway.

"I'm just warning you. He doesn't look too good," Tim says as we round the last corner before Chris's room, our shoes squeaking rhythmically across the shiny floor.

I was there, I saw him right after it happened. While it was happening, actually. How bad could he really be?

I make a right turn at room 322 and freeze dead in my tracks, standing statue-still as I feel my skin turn instantly cold.

His face is so hideously bruised that I barely recognize him.

It's funny how the mind works. It will make up all sorts of crazy shit when it really doesn't want to believe something. Why is Chris wearing a mask?, I find myself thinking.

Dad and Janet stop talking and look up at me, their faces a mixture of "I hate you" and "How could you?"

"Hello, Steven," my father manages, finally. He and Janet walk past me and down the hall, with Tim close behind, leaving Chris and I alone.

"Hey, Twinkie," he says, in a scratchy voice.

"D-- did I do this?" I ask.

"It's from my nose. The bruising spread to my face. It happens sometimes. I have a subconjunctival hemorrhage too."

"Huh?"

"The whites of my eyes are all bloody. See?" He says, pointing to his face like a young boy showing off a scab.

"Chris, look, I--"

"Steve," he says, in his usual softspoken way, and I stop to listen. "I was miserable. And jealous of what you and Tim have. I was just trying to ruin it so you would be as pissed off as I was."

"When I heard what you did, I--kinda felt like you would have actually done it. That you would have had sex with Tim, if you could have."

"I don't know, man. I wasn't thinking that far ahead. It was very impulsive."

"Well, it hurt to think my brother could do that."

"I don't blame you. I don't blame you for any of this," he says, softly. "I probably deserved it."

He turns his swollen eyes to me, and between the dark purple bruises and his Bassett Hound-like expression, I have to look away.

"I want to make it up to you and Tim. I told her, too. I want to earn your respect back. I mean it."

"Just get better, man."

"I'm trying." He brings a plastic cup to his mouth and takes a shaky sip.

"I guess you told Janet about what you did. Right?"

He nods slowly. "She basically isn't speaking to me. She says if it wasn't for the baby she would have divorced me."

"Did you tell her about--"

"Irene? Do I look retarded to you?"

"No. Bruised, but not retarded."

"Fuck you," he laughs.

1:30pm

"I know everyone is still mad, but I want us to talk things over. If you have something you want to say, say it now," Dad says.

"I--" I begin.

"First of all," Dad says, "Chris, I don't know what the hell got into you, but Tim is just like a daughter to me, and you hurt me just as much as you hurt her and Steve. How could you do such a thing?"

"I'm sorry, Dad. And I already apologized to Tim. And Steve."

"And Steve, since when do you beat up your brother?!" Dad says.

"I was wrong for handling it that way, and I want to say I am sorry for letting the family down. I--"

Obviously he's heard enough from me, and he cuts me off. "Tim, do you have anything you want to say, since you were the victim here?"

"I spoke to Chris, and Steve, and I let them know my concerns."

"Do you forgive them?"

"I... of course I do. I just, Chris kind of surprised me, and Steve--"

"What do you mean, he surprised you?" Janet sneers, sweeping her chestnut hair from her eyes. She stares unflinchingly at Tim, and the rest of us follow suit. The question seems innocent enough, but her voice is pure anger.

"I-- he, just, didn't seem like the kind of person who would do that," Tim says, clearly choosing her words carefully.

"So what does that tell you?" Janet says, staring harder.

"You think this is my fault?" Tim says.

"I can't understand why he would do that!" Janet says, mockingly, batting her eyes at the ceiling. "Gee Tim, could it be the way you were dressed?"

Tim's eyes narrow. "What did you say?"

"You have a nice body! We get it! You don't have to rub our faces in it!"

"It was a pool party!" Tim shouts.

"That doesn't mean you have to walk around with your tits hanging out!" Janet shrieks.

I turn to Chris. He's already looking at me.

Somehow, though his eyes are bloody, I can see the same serene look I've seen five hundred times before, the look of a man who can handle any crisis easily. Without a word, I know it's time to get to work.

I stand up, and to my surprise, Chris does too, swinging his legs briskly over the side of the bed and hopping to his feet in one swift motion. He walks over to Janet, grabbing her raised forearms in his hands. The room falls silent as they hug.

"Let's go for a walk, Tim," I say, and we head for the hallway.

"How about a fruit basket instead?"

2007-06-07T20:55:00.000-04:00

Monday, May 28, 2007, 5:44pm
Steve and Tim's house

I sit at the kitchen table, running my eyes over the newspaper in front of me, trying in vain to read it.

This was a mistake. Chris is my brother, as he pointed out while I was kicking his ass, and I will see him often as time passes. And since I am marrying Tim, she'll see him too, and there is no realistic way he can avoid her, as I demanded he do.

There is no excuse for what he did, but I handled it as badly as I possibly could have. There must have been a better way.

Tim is going to be angry, for one thing: She told me not to do anything stupid, and she was right. She didn't even want to tell me about this in the first place, but I badgered it out of her. I'm beginning to wish I had never known about it at all.

The door opens and slams shut. Tim stomps by me without a single word.

Damn, is she pissed off. Even when she's really mad, she'll sit down across from me with an arms-folded pout, but today I didn't even get that.

I wait a few minutes and walk slowly upstairs. This is not going to be fun.

She's in the bathroom washing up. I stand in the doorway and she looks straight ahead, her stormy eyes burning holes in the mirror. She dries her face, then digs globs of moisturizer from a small jar and rubs it into her skin so hard that it might as well be war paint.

"Are you gonna talk to me?" I say, finally.

"I don't even wanna look at you right now," she huffs, and brushes by me and into the bedroom.

I sit on the bed and watch her as she pulls her soiled chef clothes off, replacing them with jeans and a t-shirt. She walks past me and back downstairs, keys in hand.

"Where are you going?"

"To see your brother. In the hospital."

"Tim, I was angry. He hit on you!"

"I'm way too pissed off to talk to you now."

"Tim, don't leave."

Slam.

7:29pm, text message from Tim:

i am staying at my parents house 2nite just wanted u 2 know i was ok

Steve:

i am not ok with that we are going to be married and if there is a problem we should be able to talk about it

Tim:

we will talk but not til 2morrow im sorry but i need time to calm down

Steve:

please come home in the morning i will go in late so we can talk

I hate that Tim's mother is involved now. Though she puts up a good front, I know that to her, this is still a power struggle, and she is salivating at the opportunity to dig her hooks into Tim when she is vulnerable. I am sure Tim will come home tomorrow filled with Diana-isms about how horrible I am.

Tuesday, May 29, 7:45am

Steve and Tim's house

"Can I talk first?" Tim says.

I love the way she looks in the morning, with no makeup and a long ponytail. With her rosy skin and bright eyes, she might as well have been plucked from a midwestern farm.

"You really hurt me. You didn't trust me, for one, and you didn't respect my wishes when I asked you to let me handle it."

"Who says I didn't trust you?"

"You beat up your brother because you were afraid something would happen if you didn't."

"According to who, Tim?"

"Are you telling me you weren't worried? At all?"

I hesitate just a second too long before saying no, and that's all she needs.

"You see? You don't trust me! Do you?"

"This isn't Leave it to Beaver, Tim! I know how I used to be, and it's a little hard trusting other people."

"So I'm 'other people' now? I'm just some girl that you're sleeping with?"

"Don't be stupid, Tim!"

"So I'm stupid now?"

I hate arguing with girls. It's as if they have high-speed microprocessors in their heads, capable of breaking down everything I say, turning every word around and shooting it back in my eye like a spitball.

"Of course you're not just some girl! You're living in my--our house. Your name is on the deed. We're a family!"

"Your house?"

Shit. I knew that was coming.

"That's not fair, Tim--"

"Why are you marrying me if you don't trust me? If you're having all these... issues, then why did you say yes? Did you feel pressured into it? Do you need more time? Are we moving too fast?"

"No!" I shout. "I'm a big boy. If I wanted to say no, I would have."

"But you still don't trust me!"

"I've never really been in a healthy relationship. I've cheated and been cheated on. I get stupid sometimes, but that's my problem. I know you are trustworthy, and if I felt you weren't, then of course I would let you know."

"So you beat up your brother because you got stupid?" she sneers. "You drove a half hour to get down there. Were you stupid for a half hour?"

"The fight had nothing to do with you. Or it had less to do with you than with Chris and me."

"I don't understand."

Sunlight pours through the kitchen window at an unusual angle. I'm usually never home at this hour. A lot of time has passed, but I don't dare check my watch in front of Tim. The more I talk to her, the clearer I see the depth of her anger. She is disappointed and hurt, and it's going to take a long time for things to get back to normal.

"I knew you weren't going to hook up with Chris. I wasn't trying to prevent something. I'm not dumb; I know there's no way of preventing something like that, so I would never even try."

"Mm-hmm."

"Was I supposed to be happy that my brother tried to get your clothes off?"

"Like he really would have gone through with it, Steve."

"Why not? He did with Amanda. And Irene. And that chick Carol from his work."

She sits silently for a moment. She has clearly not seen things from a guy perspective.

"I don't... I'm not the same as them. I'm family! He couldn't do that."

"But he tried to."

"But it wasn't... I can't explain it. It wasn't sexual. He was acting out."

"And I suppose his acting out is okay and mine isn't."

"I didn't say it was okay!" she shouts.

"So why are you bitching at me? Why aren't you bitching at him?"

"Hello! Because he's in the hospital, Steve!" she says, her voice reverberating.

"Do you forgive him, Tim? Is everything all hunky dory with you two now?"

"He apologized."

"And that's it? Everything is perfect now, after his apology?" I say, sarcastically. "Would he have apologized if I didn't find out about it? Or is he just sorry he got caught?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't."

"And it's not perfect now," she says. "I told him that I was really disappointed in him for doing that, and that it was inappropriate, and that he caused a lot of friction between you and me."

"You did?"

"He wants to make it up to us. I told him to just focus on getting better."

"Tim, you have to know, this is about my brother betraying me. I know I act like I don't give a shit about stuff like that, but..."

"He hurt you, so you wanted to hurt him back."

"Yeah."

"He knows that, Steve. He would have talked to you about it. Why did you have to beat him up?"

"It's about male pride. You need a dick to understand."

"What does that mean?"

"Let's say I go talk to him, and he yesses me to death. What then? Do we go back to normal?" I ask. "Sounds like he's getting off light to me."

"Who says you had to go back to normal? It's your right to take some time apart from him, or to tell him that you need proof that he's learned his lesson."

"And if he never does?"

"Then you have to find a solution you can live with. And I could have helped you with all of this! I always ask you for help, why can't you ever ask me?"

Tim reminds me of a therapist sometimes. She's been through a lot of therapy herself, and has obviously learned from it. I think it has really helped her, and I am proud of how well-adjusted and sensible she is.

"I'm a man. Asking for directions is a big deal."

"Hm."

"So in your scenario I might never speak to him again."

"Of course you'll speak again. Your brother is very sorry, you know. Even though you acted like an asshole."

Normally I'd be pissed about that remark. But she's called me names before, just like I've done to her, and if that's all she's going to do, then I've dodged a bullet.

"I know."

"Is this how you're going to solve your problems now? What if we have a child and he disobeys you? Are you going to beat him up?"

"How can you say that, Tim!? How can you even ask that question?"

"You did it to Chris."

"Chris is my brother. We grew up together. You don't have a brother, so you don't understand. It's been years since I've hit anyone at all."

"Maybe it will happen again. If you did it once..."

I look her in the eye. This better be convincing. "Tim, on my life, I promise I will never hit you or our children, ever."

"Okay." She gets up from her chair and hugs me, and it's a rush of relief to smell her hair, to feel my hands on her muscled back. For the first time today I feel like we might actually get past this soon. "I'm still mad at you, but I'm glad we talked."

"Me too. How is he?"

"You broke his nose. And he has a problem with his stomach where you kicked him."

"But I didn't kick him in the stomach!"

"Must've been someone else then," she says, sarcastically. "He might need an operation."

"What?"

"Yep."

"Tim, I'm sorry about this."

"Don't tell me, tell him."

"Men get lost sometimes, as years unfurl"

2007-06-02T08:24:00.000-04:00

Monday, May 28, 2007 (cont'd)

I remember very little of the drive down. I thought the ride would calm me, but as I turn the incident over in my mind, I only grow angrier.

I know what happened. He's on a hot streak; a couple of pretty young girls have gotten naked for him, and his wife hasn't found out. And now that he's bulletproof, he's going to hit on every hot chick he sees, and his hard cock won't care who she happens to be engaged to at the time. I know what it's like to feel that way, and I am sure he would have gone through with it.

He knows how huge this relationship has been in my life, how content I am to finally be settling down, and he would have destroyed that for his own selfish pleasure. He would have ripped my life apart, just to see her gorgeous naked tits, her shaved pussy, her curvy thighs.

Her nude body flashes in my mind's eye, and my cock stiffens despite the rage. My breathing quickens, and for a moment it's all I can do not to pull over and jerk off. I am like an animal, rabidly territorial, eager to rip my enemy's throat out before mounting my waiting female.

Chris's house
681 Circular Avenue

He's in the front yard, trimming the hedges. Birds sing; sunlight streams between the branches of an oak tree, making bright patterns on the grass.

I park and walk towards him. When I am ten feet away, he turns and looks casually at me. "Hey, Steve. Are these shrubs uneven?"

I punch him in the face.

I was aiming for his neck, actually. I've never tried to punch someone's face. Why would I, with all of those bones and teeth in the way? Back when I fought a lot, I always aimed for the neck; it hurts them like hell, and it's as soft as punching a beach ball. The fights usually ended quickly.

But Chris didn't cooperate. He saw the punch coming at the last moment and tried to get out of the way, but only ended up putting his nose right in front of my fist.

There's a subtle snap, no louder than a twig breaking, and right away I know it's broken. Blood gushes over his mouth and chin, and I recall the red beard Greg had after mom slapped him that day, all those years ago.

He touches his fingers to his nose and pulls them away slowly, staring at the bright red goo that drips from them.

The blood emboldens me. He is wounded, vulnerable, and now is my chance to make him remember this mistake permanently.

I hit him harder, in the neck this time, and he stumbles over his feet and collapses to the ground; I fling myself on him, rearing back and hurling my fists at him with every ounce of strength I have.

"Steve, stop! Please, stop!" he cries, crossing his forearms in front of his face, but my rage has taken over and I am outside my body, observing the action like a disinterested third party, noting the tiny smacks of fists against skin, and the red welts that have already started to form.

The screen door flies open. "Steve, what are you doing? Leave him alone! Leave my husband alone!" Janet says.

She grabs my right arm in her hands and pulls hard enough for her nails to draw blood. I barely feel it.

I stand up and fling her across the lawn like an empty pillowcase. She falls to the ground, then rushes back into the house, sobbing.

She'll be calling the police now, I think, and I don't care.

"Steve, I'm sorry," he pleads. He raises his head and lets out a weak, gurgly cough, the cough of an old man. "I'm sorry! Please don't hit me again."

Don't hit you? No problem, motherfucker.

I reach my leg back and kick him savagely to the midsection. He doubles over, the air escaping his body with a small "hup!". He curls into a ball and I rain kicks onto his exposed arms and legs, then finally stop to rest as he lay there trembling, struggling just to breathe.

"Steve, I- I'm your brother," he manages, so softly I can barely hear him. "Let's- we could've talked about it," he whimpers, his voice shaking. I step back and look at him, at his faded WPLR t-shirt with fresh mudstains where I kicked him. The shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing a small spare tire where his tight abs used to be. His hair has thinned noticeably at the top, too. Since when does he have a bald spot?

Suddenly the whole thing seems ridiculous. The facade is gone. He's no longer the aloof, womanizing player that he had become; now, he's just my brother again, the guy who quotes Monty Python with me and takes me to football games for my birthday. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

The screen door opens. "I called your father. He says you better stop fighting right now," Janet says. "He's on his way down here."

Oh, my dad says I better stop fighting? Well, I better stop then, otherwise he might take away my car keys. Or he won't let me go to prom.

I grab Chris's face in my hands and pull it to me, so our noses are an inch apart. "You come near her again," I say, through gritted teeth, "and I swear to fucking Christ I will kill you. Get it?"

He nods. "I'm sorry, Steve," he says, his teeth still coated in blood. "Please believe me, I am so sorry."

"Your father says not to leave," Janet calls after me, but I am already gone.

Chris crosses the line

2007-05-30T22:23:00.000-04:00

Monday, May 28, 2007, 1:10pm
Steve and Tim's house

I'm not one of those guys who keeps a leash on his girl as if she were a pit bull.

I can spot jealous guys a mile away, the ones who pull their women close, leering suspiciously from side to side as if guarding Paris Hilton's jewelry collection. I find insecurity unattractive, so I consciously avoid it. No matter how much I'm burning on the inside, I pretend to be busy reading labels while some muscled Fabio wannabe strikes up a conversation with Tim as we wait in line at the drugstore. Then I'll make a joke, and the three of us will laugh, and he will realize he's getting nowhere and move on.

Five minutes after sitting down at a bar, she's got enough free alcohol in front of her to put Lindsay Lohan in a coma. She's the center of attention at every party we go to, and she's barraged with a steady stream of pickup lines as she works or does her errands.

I won't lie to you: Dating a beautiful woman is hard. I'm not the tallest, tannest, or sexiest man in the world. I don't have Donald Trump's money or Tommy Lee's dick. I do well professionally, and I'm happy and in decent shape, but Tim is an all-star. She can have any man she wants! I fear that, eventually, one of the guys who hits on her is going to be too good to pass up.

Tim says that she jumped from guy to guy for a long time and that she's tired of it. She says that she loves talking to me and learning from me, and that she can count on me when it's time to buckle down and solve a problem. She enjoys taking care of me, making sure that I eat like a restaurant critic every night, and that I blow more loads than a porn star.

She talks about our wedding and our future family all the time; when we go out, she stares at every passing baby the way I stare at the Victoria's Secret catalog.

I believe what Tim tells me. I trust her more than I have trusted anyone in my life. But that sliver of doubt never leaves, nagging me like a pebble in my shoe, and I've always wondered how I would react if some dude crossed the line.

"I hate to have to tell you this," Greg says on the phone, "but I heard something yesterday you're not gonna be happy about."

"What did you hear?"

"Tim was... she..."

My stomach drops. What is it? Did he catch her with another guy? But yesterday was a family picnic for Memorial Day. No available guys were even there, and no one who would have had the balls to hit on her, except...

Chris.

"Chris walked up to her in the kitchen, and he--"

"Greg, for Christ's sake, spit it out!"

"I was outside, changing the propane tank on the grill. The windows over the kitchen sink were open and I could hear them talking. He said, 'You look bored. Is my brother boring you?'"

"What did she say?"

"Steve, you have to promise me you're not gonna get pissed at Chris. He's just under a lot of stress--"

"Too fucking late. And unless you want me pissed at you, you'll finish telling me what happened."

"I heard her say, 'Stop!' Then he walked out."

"That bastard."

"I figured Tim might have told you herself, but I needed to let you know just in case--"

I hang up and dial Tim's work. Someone was having a party at the restaurant, and she got called in.

"She's really busy," a young man's voice says.

"It's an emergency."

"Honey? What's wrong?" Tim says.

"What happened with you and Chris yesterday?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about what?"

"Steve, he's obviously miserable, he was drinking all day, and he said something stupid."

"What did he say!?"

"I'm really busy here."

"Tell me what he said."

"No. You're gonna fly off the handle, and it's not necessary. Nothing happened!"

"Did he hit on you?"

"Steve, I think he was just kidding."

"What did he say!?" I shout, my heart thumping almost audibly.

"Baby, it's very hectic right now. My steaks are burning, I promise we'll discuss this for as long as you want when I get home," she says, sweetly, but I get the impression she's as close to snapping as I am.

"For Christ's sake, why can't you just tell me?"

"Fine," she huffs, her voice sharp and angry. "He asked me if I was bored with you. He put his hand on my ass and tried to kiss me. Are you happy now?"

I'm gonna fucking kill him.

"You're such an asshole sometimes. What, you think I'm too immature to handle being hit on? Or do you just not trust me?"

"I'll see you when you get home," I say, in a Hannibal Lechter monotone.

"Don't do anything stupid--"

Click.

"How about a moron instead?"

2007-05-21T21:11:00.000-04:00

March 23, 2007 (continued)

Tim heard enough of the conversation to figure this out on her own; no sense lying on top of it. I fill her in on the whole sordid story.

She stares at me, her blue eyes big and unflickering, her long hair flipped over one shoulder. For a moment I forget about Chris, forget that it's the middle of the night, forget that--

"Your brother is cheating?"

"Yeah, Tim, that's so shocking, 'cause no man ever cheats on his wife."

"She just had a baby!"

"What are you telling me for?" I ask.

Yeah, I'm innocent! All I did was fuck the girl's sister!

"She needs his help! And he's out sleeping with some college girl?"

Actually, she's out of college. A total geezer!

"So you never slept with a married guy?"

"Well..."

"Uh-huh."

"That doesn't mean it was right to do it. Your brother knows better. What happened? I thought they were all lovey-dovey!"

"She got pregnant and turned into a bitch. Or should I say, more of a bitch than usual."

"If you ever do that to me, I swear--"

**********

Webb Group Graphics (Chris's office)
Monday, March 26, 2007

Your workspace says a lot about you. It shows your obsession with detail, or your habitual procrastination, or, in Chris's case, a thirst for power.

Neatly labeled black binders line a shelf across from his desk: Customer Retention (Nat'l), one of them says.

Chris is an accountant. He pursued that line of work because he loved the certainty of dollars and cents. The numbers didn't care if he forgot to brush his teeth or wore the same shoes as yesterday. Building working relationships was a waste of time for Chris; he felt that everyone should be like him, quiet and efficient, and that anyone who needed a coworker to reassure them was hopelessly immature. Maybe he still feels that way, but now he's playing the game.

Accountants don't care about customer retention. Accountants work from 8:30 to 12, take exactly 30 minutes for lunch, then work from 12:30 to 5, at which point they turn off their computers, slide their chairs under the desk, and go home. Clearly, Chris has changed.

Chris's boss sure as hell isn't holding him responsible for customer retention. If he's concerned about it, it's because he's gotten restless and started looking at the overall health of the company, and is eager to do something about it.

His phone beeps loudly. "You wanted me to remind you about the deposit," a female voice says.

"Thanks, Carol," he says, without looking up from his computer screen.

"Damn people forgot the deposit for the health insurance a couple months ago," he says, not looking at me. "You don't wanna screw around with people's benefits. You know?"

"Are you some kind of big shot around here?" I ask.

"You're not jealous, are you?" he asks without smiling, and then, finally, he looks at me.

A young brunette taps on his door frame. "Hi Carol," Chris says.

"I think this is right. Can you just have a quick look at it?"

"Seeing that it's you," he smiles.

My eyes open wider as she walks behind his chair and leans against him, firmly enough so that his shoulder is buried in her left tit. Neither of them flinches, and right away I know they are fucking. It's instinctive: When a tit touches you at work, you jump. Unless you are so used to touching said tit that you don't notice anymore.

"Come say bye before you go," she says as she leaves the room.

Yep, fucking.

Twin Pines Restaurant
1:25pm

"Irene wants me to get a divorce," Chris says.

"You going to?"

His eyes narrow, and suddenly I realize what's been bothering me all day about him: He looks different somehow. There's a subtle change in his face, so insignificant that it barely registered in my subconscious. It's been gnawing at me all day like a phone number that I couldn't quite recall, but I finally figured it out.

It's his right eyebrow.

Chris and I inherited dad's thick, dark hair, and while our eyebrows are not bushy, you can't miss them, either. And, as my obsessive-compulsive mind repeatedly notices, they are perfectly level with each other. Or at least they were.

His right brow is slightly lower than his left--just a millimeter or so--and the eye underneath squints almost imperceptibly, as if he's heard something he doesn't quite believe.

It's ridiculous. Chris is almost 40, and at that age, skin sags. It's nothing.

Right?

But maybe it's not nothing. Maybe the eyebrow is a sign that his personality has changed, a tiny nuance that will end with my brother becoming someone I don't know, and don't even care for very much.

"What are you looking at, Steve?"

"Are you divorcing Janet?"

"Don't be an idiot."

OMG, i totally just killed someone lol :-D

2007-04-17T00:03:00.000-04:00

What the fuck is wrong with people? I mean, really now!

How sick does one have to be, to put a bullet in someone, watch them fall to the ground, bleeding, and then keep shooting?

What I really don't get is why this guy waited between attacks. He killed two people at 7:15, then 31 more a couple hundred yards away, two hours later.

What the hell was he doing in those two hours? Laundry? Checking email? Maybe a couple of quick IM's?

It seems as though most of the victims didn't even know this loser, and yet they lost their lives. Maybe there is a God up there, but if there is, I'm pretty sure he just created the Earth and turned his back. No way anyone looking out for us would permit this kind of nonsense.

**********

Friday, March 23, 2007 11:59pm
Steve and Tim's house

My blissful sleep is interrupted by the shrill bedside phone. Gotta turn that ringer down tomorrow.

"The baby won't sleep! She won't eat..." Janet shrieks, so loudly that I pull the phone away from my ear.

Chris annoys me more with each passing day. If he wants to fuck around on his wife, fine, but he's being careless about it. I don't care how leak-proof your alibis are; keep pushing it and you're going to get caught.

"I'm sorry about that. I really am. "

"Chris won't answer his phone!"

"Where is he?"

"He's out drinking with his work friends! He's with them all the damn time!"

Yeah, well, in fairness, his "drinking friends" have really nice blowjob lips...

"Steve, you have to help me! What bar is he at?"

Hmm. He's probably either at the Horizontal Haus, or the BJ Cafe.

"How should I know?" I exclaim, more awake now.

"You have to help me find him. What if he got into an accident?"

I sit up. This could actually be bad news. When he finally comes home, she's probably going to demand his friends' names and numbers. But that's his problem.

"Please help me, Steve."

Chris obviously has no intention of answering his phone, so I try Irene. I'm trying once and going back to bed. Enough is enough.

"Hi, Steve."

"Irene! What's going on?"

"Wellll..." she giggles.

On second thought, don't answer that.

"Janet is looking for Chris."

She covers the phone. "Your wife is looking for you," I hear, faintly.

"What the hell, Steve?"

"Your wife just woke me up because you won't answer your damn phone. Moron!"

"I'm kinda busy here!"

"So call her, and then get back to whatever it is you're doing. And stop involving me in this shit!"

"She called you, not me, you idiot." Irene giggles in the background.

Click.

It's a good thing Tim did not hear that, I think.

Oh shit! Tim!

I look down. She dozes silently, her right hand under the pillow, like always. In my drowsy stupor, I didn't think to leave the room. I hope she didn't hear anything.

I watch her for a moment. Nothing. Thank God. Now, to head back to sleep--

"Who the hell is Irene?" Tim says.

He says, she says - For whom the Belle tolls

2007-03-18T08:49:00.000-04:00

For several years now, my good friend Ari has worked with me on the "He says, she says" project. But recently she let me know that, with everything else she has going on, she is unable to continue. Of course, she'll keep blogging for us, and as always, I'll be the first one in line to read.

Ari, thanks for being one of my first blogger friends, and keep in touch!

Of course, Ari's departure means that I need another "she" to help me out. Luckily, my new blogger chick friend, Belle, has come to the rescue! She is cool and funny... a total smartass, too. How is it that she has not been blogger chick of the month yet??

Anyway, here are your latest questions:

UPDATE: Thanks to a couple of your comments, I have done some research and it turns out that douching is no longer a completely advisable practice.

Belle actually speaks from a position of authority here and she has added some comments below.

As always, this Q&A is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for medical advice.

Hey steve and ari,i am a 25 year old african woman who hasn't had much
luck in relationships(if you can call them that!)i recently met a guy
and we hit it off pretty well,went out on a date and ended up at his
house allover each other,eventually getting naked.He had a little
trouble getting hard despite everything i tried to do to get him there.I
was just wondering if its normal for some men to experience performance
anxiety even if they're with someone who is pretty patient and
undemanding.I know it wasn't cuz he wasn't attracted to me,but this has
never happened to me before and i found it very wierd,i had a few
fleeting moments of insecurity thinking it might be my fault but i got
over that pretty quickly!i like him and want to see him again and maybe
try again..lol.I just wanted to know specifically from Ari,if this has
ever happened to her since i know Steve obviously doesn't have that
problem,and if you have any tips if it happens again.thanks alot.
curious

Steve says:

Sometimes guys get stage fright when with a girl for the first time, especially if you're hot-bodied and he usually strikes out with your caliber of woman. Also, there are a lot of "taken" men who play the field, and then get guilty-penis syndrome when it's time to seal the deal.

Do yourself a favor and double-check that this guy is not already hooked up with a girl (or a guy, for that matter). If you trust him, and like him, keep trying. It's good that you're not demanding; he needs your support if he's going to get through this. In a worst-case scenario, he's got some kind of erectile dysfunction, and there are plenty of treatments to help that.

Good luck!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Belle says:

Sweetheart, I'd like to say that if the guy has such performance anxiety that he can't even achieve, much less maintain, a decent erection when a woman is pawing all over him, he wouldn't be a very good lover. He'd be at the finish line faster than Jim from "American Pie". Not ideal.

If this man is middle-aged, my first question would be to confirm his true sexual orientation. Just because he plays like he is into you means nothing. There is still a strong homophobic climate present, even in a post "Will & Grace" society. Many men are still in the closet, still pretending to be straight. Secondly, there are serious medical conditions associated with Erectile Dysfunction including, but not limited to, cancer and an enlarged prostate. Not exactly pillow talk, but something that should be addressed.

Finally, hon, don't ever think it's you. Pretty much any man would have an instant hard-on with a woman sitting next to him, in house, touching, kissing and caressing all over him. It has nothing to do with her or her abilities to get him aroused, it will be an almost knee-jerk reaction. If you have any concerns over your performance, so to speak, in that situation, my best advice is work on your speech. From personal experience and the confirmations of numerous boyfriends and guy friends, nothing will turn a choir boy into a loverboy faster than some serious dirty talk. Tell him what you want to do to him, what you want him to do to you, hell, tell him about the dream you had last night, replacing Johnny Depp with him.

And don't forget to have fun! When you stress about this stuff, the mood will die faster than someone involved with Howard K. Stern.

Good Luck!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So, noticing that nobody asked questions for a while, I'm gonna gather my courage and ask a few, just to test you both and see what I can get out of it!

1- I can't come! (Kinda clear eh?) Been able to, ONCE, and it was in plain missionary position and it took about 45 minutes non-stop in the same position. (Talk about borring!) Otherwise, I need some intense clitoris stimulation. I work on my vagina muscles but... Nothing! This is frustrating!

2- All my boy-friends (except 1) were quickies. I mean, who can get pleasure out of a 5 minute sex relation? Is there anything I / he can do about it?

3- I wear a coil (think the translation is ok) since nearly 2 years now and I've been in a serious relationship with my boy-friend for over 3 years now. I allow him to come inside me (condoms are a real turn off for both of us). The thing is, I have some "losses" (?), as if there was some cum left inside or something and it's stinky... I clean up very carefully but still... Wondering if it may be my soap or something or if it have anything to do with the fact that he's not coming out of me... I have those "losses" almost every day of the year... Any hint? I'd really love to get rid of that.

4- My ex boyfriend was well equiped (8 inches...) and we've been together for nearly 7 years. Now that I'm with my new boyfriend (5 1/2 inches and about half as big), I sometimes get the feeling that my vagina is too big for him... Is that possible and is there anything I can do to make it get more firm?

Thanks a lot for your time...

WonderinGirl

Belle says:
WonderinGirl, Oh you're making me think deep, intellectual thoughts after a long day at work! Naughty! When I read your very first question, I went into professional mode. Just as with men, some medical conditions can affect a woman's sex drive and ability to achieve climax. Your very first course of action is to get a complete physical and, yes, be honest. Doctors hear a lot, trust me, you won't faze him/her by disclosing that you're having some sexual dysfunction. I know it isn't very sexy of me to harp on the medical aspect of people's problems, but it's something to be aware of and handle as the warning sign it may be.

Along the same line, make sure you are well lubricated. If you're dry, sex will not be nearly as pleasurable. Even if you think you're okay in that department, play around! Try out products such as KY Warming Liquid or Pure Romance Sensations. There are a wide variety of heighteners out there as well, like Pure Romance X-Scream (no, I don't sell Pure Romance, but, damn, I love their products) which increase your sensitivity and heighten (hence the name) your pleasure. Speaking in more practical tones, work on positioning. Most women I know climax easier in the Cowgirl position, but you need to work a bit to find your perfect fit. If Missionary worked for you before, attempt it again, but while he's pumping away, scoot your butt down a little, this will allow his penis to rub against your clitoris and give you the stimulation you want. Also, flex your vaginal muscles around his penis, this will greatly increase pleasure on both sides.

As for your second question, my gut reaction is to get better lovers! Otherwise, read your mate. Even if you haven't been with someone dozens of times, you can tell when they are close to reaching their intended goal. When their muscles tighten, the breathing gets heavier or whatever their telltale quirk is, SLOW DOWN! If you are on top, this is easy. If he is, wrap your legs around him tightly, signaling a silent plea for a slower pace. Some men are a little dense, so if he continues humping like there's no tomorrow, kiss him deeply, passionately and say, "Baby, no rush. We've got alllll night." Give him a sly, seductive smile. He'll get the hint.

I'm not too clear as to what country you're from, but I'm assuming you're referring to an IUD when you say "coil". In response: douche. It's an important part of being a sexually active, conscious, responsible woman. It's healthy for you and courteous for your partner.

UPDATE FROM BELLE:

My, my the hackles have been raised!

During my GYN rotation in nursing school, I met a lot of stupid women. Trust me, I've got some great stories thanks to the wonderful patients at Family Planning. So let me give a brief insight into the world of douching: Young girls should not douche. By young I mean if she's under the age of consent, no Summer's Eve. Any STDs, yeast infection included, no douching. Make sure to be responsible, use clean equipment and don't douche on a daily basis, it's not meant to replace the good ole soap and water of a shower. For the record, baths? Breeding ground for infections.

Yes, douching can make an infection worse and, if done improperly, can cause infection. To summarize: Use common sense, ladies.

Finally, contrary to popular belief, size does matter... to an extent. To wander into the medical realm again, yes, the elasticity of the vagina is damn impressive, but it is far from a perpetual rubber band. Childbirth is a common culprit of this and, I am pleased to say, has a super easy remedy: Kegel exercises. You mentioned "working on vaginal muscles", but I'd encourage you to be diligent in doing so. Uterine and vaginal prolapse are problems which require serious consideration. Also, try Ben-Wa balls, they are not just practical, but a fun addition. And your partner knowing that you are using Ben-Wa balls will add a suspenseful dimension to your relationship. He'll be thinking about it, knowing you're doing this for him (because he doesn't need to know it's more for you!) all day long and be ready to rip your clothes off at the first sight of you.

Good Luck!
Belle

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Steve says:

1. You should experiment with different masturbation techniques when you are alone. This can include watching porn, playing with dildos / vibrators, or reading my blog. Sounds like you have that last one covered already though...

The point is, you may need a lot of stimulation to get off, maybe more than your guy can dish out in one session. So, once you've found what works for you, have him help you out with it. Maybe he can't pound away at you for 45 minutes, but he might be able to use Mr. Tonka Toy for 43, and then mount you as you're heading down the home stretch.

2. Not all guys can fuck for long periods of time. Sometimes, especially if they are younger, they can have more than one orgasm per session, and if that is the case, him getting off too quickly might not be such a big deal: Just do it again!

If a second helping is not an option, refer to my previous answer. There are other ways for guys to get you off besides intercourse. He's got a mouth and two hands, and you have a drawer full of toys (don't you?)

Another trick I used when I was younger: If you're planning on hooking up on a Saturday night, let's say, he knocks out a good one in the morning; this way, he'll be less, um, explosive that evening. If that doesn't work, he might have to pound out around lunchtime.

One exercise I always use is to try to cut off the flow of urine in mid-piss. It's hard as hell at first, but learning this trick gives a guy control of the muscles down there, and makes it easier to hold back the tidal wave of jizzum trying to get out.

3. Are you dribbling down there on days when you did not have sex?

A little leakage is normal, especially after the guy uncorks a champagne-like blast inside you, but it sounds like it's a bit excessive, and I wonder if it might have to do with your IUD (coil). This is one issue you should speak to your doctor about, to rule out a medical problem.

4. The way I understand it, there are medical procedures to correct this type of thing, but I doubt that you need any. What makes you think you're too big for him? Does he slip out easily, does it not feel as good, etc.? Because all of those problems can be solved by changing positions (doggie works especially well), and experimenting with different angles. Even if you are just doing it missionary, sliding up or down slightly makes a difference!

Our new friends

2007-03-11T12:12:00.000-04:00

Friday, February 16, 2007, 12:30pm
Steve's office

"I heard you dumped Krista," Chris says on the phone.

"Don't you have to be dating someone to dump them?"

"Whatever. She won't shut up about it. She's pissed at you."

I hate when people say they are angry at me. If it's a customer, that's one thing; otherwise, I'll answer with a yawn. Be pissed at me all you want; ignore me all you want. It's arrogant of you to think I care.

"That's nice, man."

"She says you're pussy whipped."

"And I say she's a cum-guzzling gutterslut."

"I'm starting to think she's right."

Chris doesn't want to go down this road with me. He is the one who, after he cheated the first time, begged his wife's forgiveness like a little boy who broke his mother's candy dish.

"Is there a point to this conversation? I need to get back to work."

"What was the big deal? Krista was having fun with you. She didn't want to marry you, Steve."

"Chris. You're about five seconds away from getting an earful."

"Alright, alright! They want to hang out tonight. You coming?"

"Goodbye, asshole."

**********

Outback Steakhouse
7:05pm

The waiting area crowd has spilled into the bar, and the door swings open every few seconds to add more. The benches are full, so Tim and I stand patiently, studying the pictures on the wall. She hates heavy jackets, and her windbreaker is far too thin for the cold, so she presses against me tighter each time the door opens; eventually, food is the farthest thing from my mind.

"That's a Timber Wolf," a bearded man says to me, pointing to a picture on the wall. "I noticed your eyes keep going back to it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The wolf in the picture. It's a Timber Wolf. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"You were watching my eyes?" I say, but it doesn't sound as mean as I want it to.

He's wearing a vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt and rumpled cargo pants, and a long-haired brunette with a pierced lower lip gazes admiringly at him as he speaks. Obviously, he's one of these life-is-too-short, earthy-crunchy types who would talk to Joseph Goebbels if he walked in.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Sorry, friend," he smiles, and he turns away.

He doesn't strike me as weird, just extremely laid-back. Maybe I'm nuts, but I believe him.

"What's the difference between a Timber Wolf and a regular wolf?" I ask.

We chat until we're interrupted by a voice over the intercom: "Bruce, party of two."

"Can you make it four?" he asks the hostess. She nods.

"Join us!" he says, smiling like a child.

"I don't use Microsoft products," he says from across the table. "It's been almost impossible finding IT jobs."

"The interview is usually pretty short," Patty interjects. "He sits down, says, 'I won't use anything made by Microsoft', and they say, 'Thanks for coming in.'"

We laugh.

"But why don't you use Microsoft?" I ask.

"Microsoft products are horrible. The worst-designed products in the industry. Most people don't know that because they don't see anything else. And they don't see anything else because Microsoft is a monopoly."

Patty nods enthusiastically.

"Microsoft is not a research and development company; they are an acquisition company. They wait for small, ingenious companies to make the breakthroughs, and then they either buy them or bully them out of business, and sell the technology as their own."

"So you oppose them on principle?"

"Of course!" he says.

"So why are you in IT? Why not another industry?"

"Oh, I do work in other industries at times. I've got a CDL now, so I can drive trucks! I also managed to find an IT job in a Linux shop, but it doesn't pay much."

"Linux? The non-Windows operating system?"

"Right."

"How about you, Patty? What do you do?"

"I walk dogs sometimes."

I only agreed to sit with them so we wouldn't have to wait as long. But the conversation was interesting, and Tim and I actually had a great time with them. Before we left, we made plans to see them again the next weekend.

The marrying man

2007-02-26T13:17:00.000-05:00

The last time I asked someone to marry me, I was 23 years old. Actually, that was the only time, since Tim is the one who proposed to me.

The first time, I was too allergic to the future to think about what I was doing; after considering it for about 15 seconds, I walked into a jewelry store at 1:00pm and walked out 45 minutes later, a small box in one hand and a $2500 invoice in the other.

I was scared, actually frightened, by the debt. When she unceremoniously dumped me and kept the ring, fear turned to anger--but it amazes me how much drama such a small amount of money created. It burned at me for years, as if I had bankrupted my retirement account.

But that was several jobs and promotions ago. Now, $2500 means nothing. Tim and I refurnished our family room recently, and after dropping $2000 on furniture, and $1500 on an LCD HDTV (which rocks the house by the way, more on this later), we splurged on a fancy dinner ($97, inlcuding tip). That night, I slept like a baby. In fact, I slept better than usual, knowing that we had taken steps toward improving our home.

After proposing, Tim did not ask me for a ring. It was almost like she did not care, or that she wanted it to be strictly my idea.

When you are in love and planning to get married, you want everyone to know it. You want to talk about it, turn it over in your mind all day long. Having said that, it's easy to get out of hand. Some guys think this is a contest. "Bob got his girlfriend two carats, so I'm buying three for mine!" I want to buy her something extravagant, because I love her and want her to have the best. She doesn't deserve to be cheaped out on. However, I think anything over $10,000 is ridiculous to spend on a ring. I'm going to keep the price below that level if I can.

Tuesday, 11:30am
New England Diamond Exchange

"This is a gorgeous one," Ira says, pulling a ring from it's black felt bed. "See? It talks to you!" he purrs, turning it this way and that under the sharp fluorescent light.

Tim slides it over her pinky. "Hmm," she says.

It's far too small. Her hands are dainty, almost little-girl like, but the band is narrow and the stone unsubstantial.

"I think we need a bigger one," I say. Ira and Tim look at me. "Are you sure?" Tim says, reaching for the tiny price tag.

I pull the ring away. "She's not allowed to look at price tags. Okay?" I say to Ira. He smiles and nods.

He takes a step to his left and pulls another ring from the display case. She slides it over her finger and we all fall silent.

The band is platinum, and thicker than the others we've seen; the stone looks big and heavy, and its shine is clean and flawless. It doesn't matter how beautiful Tim is; the ring demands your attention, insists that you stare at its perfection.

I watch her as she studies the ring, as if she were a jeweler herself. "Can I see that... magnifying thing you put in your eye?" she asks.

"Sure," Ira says, handing her an eye loupe. He and I smile at each other; she is hooked and we both know it.

"What do you think?" I ask, finally.

She leans to the side, trying to read the price tag. I snatch it in my right hand. "Nice try."

"Steve!"

"Do you like it?"

"Oh my God," she breathes, just like she does during intense sex.

"How many carats is this, Ira?"

"Two and a half."

I need to know how much it costs, but it's important that I not look shocked, no matter how high the number. I glance at the price tag with a nonchalant smile.

So much for my $10,000 limit. But the ring is perfect.

"We'll take it."

Taking the "adult" out of adultery

2007-02-19T10:04:00.000-05:00

"Why are you calling me?"

"Merry Christmas to you too. Butthead!"

Krista is just like a rebellious teen who gets scolded and laughs it off. Did she not hear the anger in my voice? Did she forget that she agreed not to call me, except in an emergency?

"I'm serious, Krista. Don't call me."

"Issh," she sighs. "Pretty obvious what you're after."

"Don't even. Don't even. I was totally honest with you from the beginning."

"What about Tim? Were you honest with her?"

Bitch.

"I need to talk to you tomorrow, Krista."

"Whatever. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Sorry you're being such a loser about it."

Tuesday, December 26, 10:14am
Steve's office

It might feel good to scream at Krista, but I know better. She knows enough to cause me major problems.

This is the nerve-wracking part, the part that comes long after the fun is over. Where the Kristas of the world are involved, I'll tell myself anything: That I'm perfectly safe, that she won't ever turn psycho, that I can disembark from this booty train whenever I want. Sometimes I'm wrong.

It's only now, weeks after we've awkwardly put our clothes back on, that restraint seems like a good idea. I can't believe I let myself associate with someone as immature as Krista. I even go so far as to read my old posts, looking for a line about a ridiculously hot body, or a perfectly sculpted set of boobs. I find nothing.

Krista was fuckable. She was there, and she was easy. Yeah, she's cute, and has a nice body, just like a million others. Unless this is the easiest rejection in the history of human interpersonal relationships, she wasn't worth it.

"Krista, Tim and I got engaged yesterday."

"Oh, cool! Great! Congratulations, Steve." Her voice sinks before the sentence is done, making the whole thing seem like a bad acting job.

"We have to stop seeing each other." Saying it out loud hurts; it makes me realize exactly how much of an asshole I was being.

"Seeing each other naked, you mean."

There's that teenager again.

"Uh, yeah. I guess so."

Silence.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Steve."

"You don't have to say anything. Look, I like you, Krista. It's just, I really can't do this anymore. I shouldn't have done it in the first place."

"So it's all my fault then?"

"What? No! Neither one of us is without blame, Krista. And I'm actually starting to feel some remorse, believe it or not."

"Well, congratulations on your remorse."

"I... I, okay, thanks."

"Bye."

That was almost too easy. I wonder if Krista really is as aloof as she appears, or if the fun is just beginning.

With sincere condolences to women everywhere...

2007-02-13T21:15:00.000-05:00

In hindsight, this makes perfect sense. Tim is on the pill, which is about 98% effective. We've never even had so much as a scare, in well over a year together.

I am completely flattered. Tim is beautiful, hard-working, driven and talented. She impresses me and turns me on. But, nonetheless, a subtle ache surfaces now and again, a lonely raft in an ocean of joy.

I was getting used to the idea of being a father. My brothers both have kids; many of my friends do too. You don't have to ask a father if he's happy with his children; you just have to watch him wrestle around on the floor with them, or listen to the stories he always seems to have about them on Monday mornings. I know we'll have kids someday, but...

"Are you proposing to me?"

"I know you said you wanted to wait until we were living together for a year, but it's almost a year," she says, so quickly that I can barely make out the words. "And I'm totally okay with a long engagement!"

"I--"

"We can do this, Steve! We can totally do this! We love each other!"

"Can I finish?" I smile.

"Okay."

"Yes!"

"Oh my God!" she shrieks, and we hug tightly.

We call my dad first. "It's about friggin' time!" he says. "If you waited too much longer, I was gonna marry her myself!"

The call to Tim's mother should be interesting.

"Steve and I are getting married," Tim says into the speakerphone.

Silence.

"Congratu...lations..." her father says in the background, his voice trailing off.

"Steve and I have something to talk about," Diana says.

"Tim asked me, Diana, not the other way around."

"Steve was less than honest with me," Diana says, completely ignoring what I just said.

"Mom. Do you have to ruin everything? I just told you we're getting married, and you're bitching at us?"

"I spoke to Steve a few weeks ago..."

"Mom, this was my idea, not Steve's."

"So Steve had no idea this was coming," she says, skeptically.

"None," I say.

"Hm."

"Mom, I'm marrying him, so just get used to it. I'm not gonna let you ruin my Christmas and my..." she buries her face in her hands.

"Diana, I think you ought to apologize to your daughter," I scold.

"Steve, I'm just trying to--"

"Diana! Apologize!" Marvin booms, so loudly that I scarcely recognize his voice. We all freeze.

Tim picks her head up. "Dad? Did that come out of you?" We burst out laughing, the four of us, and suddenly I know everything will be alright.

"I'm sorry for my display," Diana says. "Congratulations to you both. Steve, welcome to the family. We love you very much."

**********

The more I get used to being engaged, again, the more I realize it was a really good idea. We'll take it slow, we'll get used to being married, then we'll start a family. Thirty-six is a great age to begin this chapter of my life, especially since I've gotten all of the misbehavior out of my system.

My phone vibrates. Krista calling, it says.

I guess the pills worked after all...

2007-02-11T08:54:00.000-05:00

Saturday, December 23, 2006
Steve and Tim's house

If she truly is pregnant, I have to get her to admit it. Why would she want to hold back information like that, anyway?

Maybe she wants to spring it on me for Christmas. Wouldn't that be cool? I give her a flattering ensemble from Bebe, and she congratulates me on being some kid's personal ATM machine for the next 18 years. Actually, 18 years would be a bargain.

I would confront her on it, but I'd hate to ruin the surprise. Besides, what if I am wrong? I never have seen any concrete proof...

Wait a minute.

It's been at least a week since we've put out any garbage. If she's taken a pregnancy test at home since then, I should be able to find it.

I sift through every trash pail in the house, then dump three overflowing Hefty bags on the garage floor and patiently sift through the rotting apple cores and the slimy skeletal remains of the rotisserie chicken we ate five days ago. Five unseasonably hot, chicken-decomposition- friendly days ago.

I breathe through my mouth as best I can, but the smell manages to find me in little wisps, and it's far from springtime in the Rockies. I have all I can do not to gag.

I finish inspecting the garbage; no discarded pregnancy test. Of course, she might have taken the test at a friend's house, or maybe she threw it away somewhere other than home. That's what I would have done.

But there is another way: My neighbor is having a Christmas Eve party tomorrow, and liquor will most definitely be flowing. I wasn't planning on going, but I'll take her, and see if she has anything to drink. She's always good for a shot or a glass of wine at parties like that, so if she sticks to the Diet Coke with lime, I'll be very suspicious.

Christmas Eve, 2006 8:15pm
Kevin's house

I'll wait for Kevin to offer her a drink. Can't look too obvious, you know.

"Steve!" Kevin shouts, lifting me off the floor in a drunken hug.

"Hey Tim!" he says, kissing her twice on the cheek, then staring at her.

She looks at me briefly with a sly smile, as if to say, "Charming friends you have!"

9:05pm

There are only about 10 people here, and the conversations have slowed to a near standstill. Normally, this is the point where I would bail, but I still have something to do.

"So Kevin, do you still brew that beer of yours?"

"I haven't for a long time. It's just Sam Adams tonight, I'm afraid. You want one?"

Bingo.

"Um, sure! Tim, I'm getting a Sam Adams. Do you want anything?"

"No thanks, hon."

Christmas, 2006, 7:45am
Steve and Tim's house

She sits alongside me on the couch, and we drink in the atmosphere one final time before opening the presents.

"Merry Christmas, Tim."

"Merry Christmas, Steve." She kisses me, sits slowly back down, then leans over and kisses me again, slower.

"Honey?" she says.

Here it comes. Finally, after all this waiting!

"I just want you to know how happy I am with you, how much I care about you. You helped me so much with my life, encouraging me when I was looking for my job..."

"Uh-huh..."

"We've been through a lot together--my surgery, your dad being sick--my mom being...my mom. I love you so much."

"Me too!"

"I bet some married couples have not been through what we have. So, maybe it's time for us to be a married couple."

"Are--"

"Steve," she says, with a deep breath, "will you marry me?"

"That could be us"

2007-01-28T22:39:00.000-05:00

Monday, December 18, 2006, 2:03am
Steve and Tim's house

"....a girl!" Chris says on the phone, though I can barely hear him through the fog of sleep.

"Huh?"

"It's a girl!" he shouts again, his voice quivering. "I'm a father!"

Wow, cool. Have you told your girlfriend yet?

St. Luke's Hospital, maternity ward
3:30pm

Tim holds the baby expertly, supporting her tiny head in the crook of her elbow, gently stroking her wispy hair. "Hi, Veronica," she purrs. "I hope uncle Steve is gonna hold you and not be a big chicken!"

"I held MacKenzie when she was born."

"Here, take her, so I can get your picture!" she smiles.

**********

Steve and Tim's house, 7:30pm

"You haven't said two words all night, Tim."

"Are we ever gonna have a baby?"

"Are we really having this conversation again?"

"No, I'm serious."

"So am I!"

"Just tell me. What are your--intentions with me?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Tim!"

"Am I someone you would ever consider marrying?"

I have no idea where this is coming from. I've told her a million times that--

That's not true. I've never actually come out and said that I intend to marry her and start a family together. Sure, I've joked about what it will be like after we're married for 20 years, but that's hardly how she needs to hear it.

We've lived together for over a year, and endured some drama: Her mother almost breaking us up, my father almost dying, the months of agony as I searched desperately for a new job. We were both there at the end of each day, making it bearable.

The closest I've come to long-term commitment is telling Tim about my "one-year rule": We should live together for at least a year before discussing marriage, then be married for at least a year before discussing children. Neither of us is going anywhere; why rush?

"Tim, of course I want to be with you."

"Because if I'm wasting my time with you--"

My first impulse is to raise my voice, because it feels like she is not hearing me. But there is something different about Tim today; it almost seems like she's doubting the relationship all of a sudden. But why would she be doing that?

It must be the baby. Seeing Veronica reminded her that motherhood is something she really wants, and that she wants it with me.

"Don't you remember what we talked about, the one-year rule?"

"You're old enough. I'm old enough. We have money. We have a nice house--"

"Tim, you're 25."

"Did you see them? Your brother and his wife? How happy they were?"

"Of course I did!"

"That could be us!" she says, pleadingly, her voice sinking to a whisper.

Thursday, December 21, 2006, 12:15pm
Steve's office

"Are you coming home on time?" Tim asks.

"Um, yeah."

"Please don't be late?" she pouts.

"You okay?"

"I'm feeling kinda run down. I want your company. Is that too much for a girlfriend to ask?"

"Tim," I laugh.

"Please?"

8:00pm

"Come lay down next to me."

"You feel warm," I say, kissing her forehead.

"I'm fine, just hold me. And can you turn that TV down?"

I wake up midway through the 10:00 news with Tim dozing next to me, her arms still gripping my shoulders, our noses almost touching.

Let's see: She's acting clingy, she's tired and sluggish, she's questioning me about our future, and gauging my interest in having a baby.

I think she's pregnant.

From an FOS (Friend of Steve)

2007-01-25T21:49:00.000-05:00

Hey Guys,

This is the first time that Steve has ever mentioned anything about the book deal so I'll give you a little insight. I've been reading Steve's blog since he was interviewed by a prominent adult entertainment blogger and journalist. I've been a devoted fan and champion of his work for the last three years. I work in development at a large production company in Hollywood and Steve's unpublished manuscript is in active consideration at some of the largest literary agencies in the world. I've spoken to him many times on the phone, heard his voice, have experienced the personality and wit that you have all read about in person through many conversations. Even though I've never met him, there's not a doubt in my mind that these stories are lifted from his own experiences.

It's funny that many of you have commented that Steve sounds like Carrie from Sex in the City. We've been marketing his book as exactly that: The Men's Sex in the City. In fact, we're even shopping it to HBO. Keep reading and we'll let you know as things progress.

Loyal reader,
Mr. Hollywood.

Stevo vs. James Frey

2007-01-24T22:24:00.000-05:00

A couple of you wrote me to bust my balls about my haughty claims of literary superiority over James Frey. Who's better? You tell me.

One of these passages was written by James Frey; the other is my rewrite. Tell me which one you like better , and I'll let you know which one was mine!

Writer A
I start walking toward the elevator, know that there are things with Leonard that I should not question. He pushes the button and the elevator arrives and we go down walk through the lobby leave the hotel go outside. It's dark. It's cold. The wind. We start walking. Five minutes later we're at the steakhouse. We walk through a set of large, unmarked oak doors. It's dark, the walls are wood, the carpet thick. It smells strongly of steak and cigars. I take a deep breath, we walk through a short hall to a reception stand. There is a man in a tuxedo behind the stand he steps around and greets Leonard calls him Sir and shakes his hand. Leonard introduces the man to me and we shake hands and the man says pleasure to meet you, Sir, which makes me laugh.

Writer B
I inhale sharply and turn to confront Leonard, and at the last moment think the better of it. Once he's got his mind made up, it's a waste of time. We walk to the steakhouse, the wind pushing against us like an invisible hand; instead of talking, we avert our eyes and muse at the round pools of white from the streetlights.

I push open the heavy oak doors and welcome the warmth of the steakhouse, savoring the comfortable air despite the cigar smell. A tuxedoed man hops around his podium to greet us, smiling cartoonishly.

I love how restaurant hosts act so happy to see people. What, did he think no one was going to show up for dinner today? Or do we just resemble his long-lost uncles?

But he really gives himself away when he calls me "sir", despite my muddy pant-legs and tattered windbreaker, which is not at all suited for the brutish cold. I laugh silently into my collar.

Good day, and welcome to post #400

2007-01-19T23:07:00.000-05:00

It's been well over two years, three quarters of a million site visits, and now, 400 posts. Thanks for making this little ol' web page so much fun for me. Here's to the next 400!

It's funny to me how many comments I still get about the Vaseline lip therapy post. The post is two and a half years old, people! It's absolutely ridiculous to have to talk about this again, but if it keeps coming up...

Vaseline lip therapy is the same thing as regular Vaseline, and yeah, Vaseline can be used as lube. In fact, back in the day, before Astroglide came along, that was pretty much the only option. I never got what was so hard to believe about me using it for anal.

Sometimes I get the impression that people have stopped thinking about it, and are just parroting what they have heard others say. "It must be ridiculous, because I heard someone else say it was!"

Go back and read it again. Stop repeating what you hear and ask yourself what is so hard to believe about it. I'm only going to answer the same question so many times before I tell you to fuck off.

Oh, and as a word to the wise, when you are using lube, you only need a small amount on the tip. Lube should be used sparingly, just to make penetration easier. You're not buttering an ear of corn, for Christ's sake!

But I digress.

And now, for the other question that I always get. Namely, "Is this stuff real?"

From time to time, I have to remind readers that I change names, dates, times, places, and circumstances to protect my anonymity, and to make the story flow better. Do I make some things up? Sure.

I'm not trying to convince you that I'm a legendary chick magnet, or the corporate version of Michael Jordan. That was never the point. Go back and read the 399 posts before this one: Do I ever insist that this is all 100%, unequivocally, real?

And by the way, what, exactly, in this blog is so hard to believe? That I had sex with a few girls? That I got a promotion and drove a nice car? What, these things don't happen in real life?

Of course they do, but that does not stop readers from savaging me as a "liar". Does it bother me? Yeah, in a way, because they seem oblivious to what I am trying to do.

I blog to entertain you. Read it, and have fun. Hopefully, it'll take your mind off your high credit card balance or your psychopathic boss for a few minutes before you have to get back to work. That's all.

L. Ron Hubbard was a horrible human being, so twisted that his own son compared him to Adolf Hitler. But he did say one interesting thing: "If it isn't true for you, it isn't true." If you think I'm lying, go with it. Assume this is all fiction. Whatever else one can say about me, I am a good writer. The story and the characters are strong enough to hold readers' attention, true or not. When the book based on this blog finally gets published, it will be sold as fiction. Those who give it a chance will love it from the start, and it will be irrelevant what shelf they pulled it from at Barnes & Noble.

There are less able writers (James Frey and Tucker Max come immediately to mind) who vehemently insist (or, in Frey's case, insisted) that every word they utter is gospel truth. In my opinion, they do so because their stories lack a certain appeal, and they feel compelled to add that magic tagline of, "...and it's all 100% true!" for the extra spark of interest that the story cannot generate on its own. I will never stoop to that; when it comes to writing skill, neither of them is fit to sniff my boxers.

So are these stories true or not?

Let's put it this way: You wouldn't write a cookbook if you didn't know how to cook. Yes, I am a writer, and I have turned my life into a story. Life doesn't unfold the way a book does, and the writer in me knows how to make it fit, so that's what I do. Put your cynicism and personal issues aside and read what I have to say. Listen to my inner thoughts. If you do, you will feel a genuineness that can't be faked.

If you read it, you can assume that something like it happened to me at some point in my life. If sex and work success are that foreign to you, you should stop blog-reading and leave the house once in a while.

A lot of you readers are loyal fans and great friends. A lot of you are also immature imbeciles. It's cliche to say so, but if you don't like what I am doing here for any reason, do me a favor: Leave and don't come back.

And as I mentioned recently, if I were really trying to pump myself up, why on Earth would I admit to cracking under the pressure and quitting my job, probably doing long-term career damage? Why would I admit to getting shot down by girls and dating sometimes weird or less-than-beautiful ones? Why would I admit to so many imperfections?

But again, ultimately your truth is determined by you, and whatever it is you should embrace it.

Check back soon, and go Pats!!

Love,
Stevo

Stevo is who we thought he was

2007-01-07T23:16:00.000-05:00

Transcript of the recent press conference with Denise Green, president of the Steve Caruso Monogamy Foundation.

DENISE: "I would like to take this opportunity to announce our full support for Steve during this time of turmoil--"

REPORTER: "Turmoil? Denise, he cheated on his girlfriend of over one year!"

DENISE: "Yes, but--"

REPORTER: "Does it surprise you? Didn't it seem like Steve had matured?"

D: "Please, let me--"

R: "Are you concerned that a monogamy foundation like yours is going to suffer political damage for supporting an unapologetic womanizer like Steve?"

D: "No, because--"

R: "No? But they were living together! They were talking marriage and children! And then he just goes off and curls toes with some psycho nutbag!"

D: "Fine. Fine! You know what? Fine.

"Stevo is who we thought he was. We've all read the blog; we know what he's capable of. I mean, who the hell fucks his first cousin like it's bullshit. Bullshit!

"Everything was fine. He dated Stephanie for the better part of a year, and then he kissed Tim, but he told Stephanie about it, and then he cheated on Tim--he is who we thought he was!

"Now." [Slaps microphone violently] "You wanna throw your panties at him? Go ahead and throw your panties at his ass. But he is who we thought he was! And he screwed us in the end!"

[Storms off, stage right]

Not getting the joke?

Dichotomy

2007-01-04T23:23:00.000-05:00

"Do you want a real tree this year, or a fake one?" Tim asks.

"Fake ones make a lot more sense, but I've never had one, ever."

"We'll figure it out. Oh, and do you want our picture on the Christmas cards this year?"

"Our picture?" I say, as I carry a box of decorations down the attic stairs.

"Last year, we signed both our names to the Christmas cards, but we had only been dating a little while, and some couples put their picture on their cards. Until they have a baby, then they put the kid's picture on the card--"

"Are we back on the baby thing again, Tim?"

"No! I'm just saying!"

"Yeah, we can do the picture, I guess."

"Is that extra extension cord in here?" Tim asks, pointing to the hallway closet. She turns the doorknob...

...Krista's apartment door opens. "What took you so long?" she smiles.

Krista's psychosis has not affected her physically, at least not yet. Her teeth are straight out of a dentist's "after" picture, and her thick lips, freshly coated in dusty pink, frame them flawlessly.

I am staring. "Are you coming in?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"You want a glass of wine?"

"I have to go back to work."

"I was just asking." She gets defensive quickly, and I'm careful never to say "I'm sorry" when she does. She's insecure; she would doubt the sincerety of the apology, and a fight would ensue.

"I have to ask you something," I grin.

"What?" she smiles back, as she walks over and straddles my lap with her dainty thighs, chewing a piece of red licorice. I catch a glimpse of her navel under her scoop-neck t-shirt; her short skirt rides up.

"Are you wearing red or pink today?"

"Why don't you look and find out?"

I slide my hand across her back, and feel nothing but spine. My cock, suddenly stiff, is bent at a crazy angle under her weight, and with the adrenaline that's flowing, I can barely feel it.

"Trick question, huh?" I say. "I bet you're not wearing panties either."

I pull up her skirt, exposing her cleanly-shaved pussy, and her soft mouth plunges against my neck. We stare for a brief moment and then we are clutching at each others' clothes, pulling at buttons and zippers with feverish speed.

The phone rings.

"That's my mother."

"That's nice," I say in between kisses.

"She's gonna keep calling until I answer..."

"...can you get that?" Tim calls from atop her stepstool, as she places the star on the tree.

"What's all that commotion in the background?" Tim's mother says.

"What commotion? We're decorating. Hold on, I'll get Tim."

"I don't want to talk to Tim, I want to talk to you."

"About?"

"Are you proposing this Christmas?"

"What? No, Diana!"

"You wouldn't tell me if you were. I just want you to know it's a bad idea."

"Thanks for the tip."

"You're doing really wonderfully together. There's plenty of time to get married--"

"Diana, like I said--"

"Of course. You're not thinking of it. Then Christmas comes and the Hope Diamond will be under the tree, and I'll get this giddy phone call at 7:30am. 'Mom, we're getting married!'" she says, in a mock falsetto.

"Diana. You are way off base here. Words cannot express how far off you are. So--"

"Gimme that," Tim shouts, grabbing the phone.

"Mom, I'm sick of you interfering," she shouts. "Just..."

"...leave me alone, mom!" Krista yells into the receiver. "I'll call you later!"

She bangs the phone down so hard that it dings.

Her scowl melts and she lays down under me, sliding off the last of her clothing, a half-length cotton sock. I pause over her, my heart throbbing, my breaths quick and choppy.

"You want it don't you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Say pretty please."

"Steve--"

"Say pretty fucking please!"

"Pretty please fuck me."

"Again."

"Pretty please fuck me with your big hard dick."

I slip into her before she's done saying it. Her hands clutch my shoulder blades; her teeth sink into my flesh, and the dizzying pain somehow makes me hornier.

You don't need a PhD to figure out when Krista is getting ready to cum. Her high, panting moans grow progressively louder until you think the cops are going to break the door down any minute; she claws and bites me like an animal. Sex makes her lose control, like a drug that she can't quite handle.

Yeah, I like it.

I pull back and watch my cock slide out of her, almost all the way, then guide it back in, in exquisite slow motion.

"You like that?" I ask, pushing her ankles behind her ears.

"Oh yeah."

"Are you a horny little slut?"

"Yes."

"Say it!"

"I'm a horny little slut!"

Krista likes being belittled. I never really got into that type of thing; if she's that much of a whore, who wants her? But evidently she needs to be treated this way to fully get off.

Her pussy is amazing, warm and soft; it's like fucking melted chocolate. And all at once, I am outside my body, just like I used to be, watching myself like a disinterested third party. Though our bodies are stuck together like magnets and we are going at it like rabid jackals, all I want is to fuck her harder, to drive my cock deeper into her, to fill her with my hot cum until she overflows.

"You want my cum in your face? Huh? Do you?"

"Pretty please," she whispers, clutching my legs with hers, pulling me against her.

"Say it again."

"I want... you... to... cum in my face," she says, as her breathing deepens and a faint line of sweat forms across her hairline.

I pull out, squeezing my rod with all my might as I rush to the head of the bed. And just as I stop moving, I can hold it back no longer; I unleash thick cum on her, across the bridge of her nose, on her cheek, in her open mouth.

"What time do you have to be back at work?" Krista asks nonchalantly, as I search for a towel, her face still a cummy mess.

Too bad she didn't die in an M&M factory...

2007-01-02T12:12:00.000-05:00

Saturday, December 2, 2006, 12:00pm
Lila's office, parking lot

"I'll drive, if that's okay," Lila says.

It's un-Decemberlike today, with air so warm and inviting that I roll down my window as we drive. She guides the car to the highway and onto a bridge, and there is something familiar about the dark gray oil tanks and heavy construction equipment that block my view of the water beyond. I've gone this way before, but not for a long time...

"Are we going to the hospital?" I ask, finally.

"Mm-hmm," she says, without looking at me. I wait for her to explain, and she doesn't.

I'm not sure what business she has at the hospital, but we're not going to visit someone; if we were, she would have told me. Besides, yesterday she said she had to "talk" to me, not visit a sick friend or relative.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that Lila might be the one who is sick. Maybe she's being tested for HIV. Maybe she's already tested positive, and she wants a doctor to break the news.

My stomach turns to ice. If she's HIV-positive, that would mean that...

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" I ask, finally calming myself down enough to speak.

"Oh, nothing really. I just... go there sometimes, and I wanted some company."

"You go to the hospital? Why?"

"I don't... never mind."

We park on the third level of a dank garage. Lila's heavy footfalls echo loudly against the pavement as we walk to the entrance, the way Dan Johnson's do; it's the walk of an important person who would never be here without a good reason.

"Hi, sweetheart," says the receptionist as we breeze by.

"This is where my nana stayed, right before she passed away. She had pneumonia. They took such good care of her. They were so nice."

"The nana I met last year?"

"Yeah."

Lila's great-grandmother Fran died this summer; I remember signing the sympathy card that got passed around the office. I vaguely recall that she was distraught about it, but at that point, if it didn't involve eating, sleeping, fucking, or wiping my ass, I didn't have time for it.

The first, and last, time I ever saw Fran was a snowy December day, and it struck me how alone she was, cooped up in a small 12th-floor apartment, while in the cul-de-sacs far below her, families gathered, sharing the joy of the season.

"Did your mom ever go visit her last Christmas?"

"Doubt it. She sent her a card, that was probably it."

"So we were the only ones who visited her during the holidays?"

"I went back a couple of times."

"Hello, dear," says an elderly woman with a walker.

"Hi, Margaret, merry Christmas," smiles Lila. "This is my friend, Steve!"

Lila leads me to the cafeteria, where we dine on leathery roast beef and bruised apples.

"Aren't those beautiful?" she asks, pointing to a series of wintry scenes painted on the picture windows. "This guy came in and did them all in, like, six hours."

"How often do you come here?"

"Couple times a week."

I look at her.

"I know you think I'm a whack job. Forget it, I shouldn't have brought you here," she says, and her face falls into the prettiest pout you've ever seen, with the slightly-jutting lower lip: Subtle, yet powerful enough to empty Bill Gates' bank account.

"I do get it. You miss her."

"Mmm."

"You should have seen yourself walking here just now. You kept looking down the hall like you were waiting for someone. Like she was gonna come around the corner in her wheelchair any minute."

"So you don't think I'm coocoo for coming here?"

"Does Nate know you come here?"

"No. You didn't answer me. Am I crazy?"

"Pretty much."

"Steve," she laughs.

I'm sure most of you think she's cracked, but I don't. Everyone always talks about what's really important, and what's really important invariably winds up being family. No matter how successful we are, no matter how much money or how many toys we have, spending time with those we love is the most important thing, or so we are told.

But of course, when someone we love dies, we are programmed just as aggressively to move on, to forget that person and live our lives. We are to light a candle, shed a tear, and then get back to folding our laundry. Why? What is so weird about going to the last place Lila saw her great-grandmother alive, if it brings back good memories?

Being here makes me think, too. My dad was very ill this year, and I'm lucky to still have him here. I don't have to hang around the hospital, wishing I had another day with him; I can actually see him whenever I want.

"I think you're a hell of a lot sweeter than I'll ever be. When I die, I hope someone does that for me," I say, finally.

"I need to show you something," she exclaims, and leads me down the hall so quickly that I have to trot to keep up. We round a corner, and she seems not to notice the breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows to our right; instead, she stops at a wall filled with five-foot-high wooden plaques, each one covered with rows of small brass nameplates. She reaches up over her head and points to a plate reading, "IN MEMORY OF FRANCES LEGGIERO"

"See? That's my nana," she says, like a proud little girl.

The double date

2007-01-01T23:53:00.000-05:00

Friday, December 1, 2006, 7:15pm
Ming Garden Restaurant

Nate is tall and chiseled, exactly the Abercrombie model-wannabe that I envisioned. He is careful to take control of the conversation early, and to be our table spokesman, speaking on behalf of the group each time the waitress visits.

Nate might as well be pissing a circle around Lila, marking his territory like a wolf. He's no doubt heard all about me, and he wants me to know that she is his now, not mine, and that his biceps are bigger than mine, too.

I have no idea why he's insecure, if he is at all. He's taller than me, younger, and better-looking. He's more Lila's physical equal than I am, and I often wondered why she never dated more guys like him.

"You have a Z4, don't you?" he asks, when the conversation lulls. "Those things have crappy suspensions, I heard." He smiles broadly, and the girls chuckle.

Don't you just love when someone basically spits in your eye and then laughs it off? You try to give it back to them, and it's "Hey, ease up! It was just a joke!" But guys like Nate always slip up eventually, and when he does, I'll be waiting.

"Yeah, the sport suspension is standard, and it doesn't like bumpy roads. Anyway, I sold mine."

"Uh oh," he chortles. "The girlfriend is laying down the law!"

"I wish I had that much control over him," Tim says. "Actually, it was--"

Lila slaps his arm lightly and grits her teeth at him. "Sorry," he mutters.

I'd know that mutter anywhere. That's the I'm-fucking-Lila mutter. You tell yourself that you don't need her, that she is just another warm pit stop for your little Darth Vader, but you know that if she ever pulls that steady sex stream out from under you, that you'll collapse to the floor, reduced to a shivering wreck, a heroin addict quitting cold turkey. I've muttered more than a few insincere "sorry"s myself, in order to keep the sexual gravy train rolling. I can't blame Nate one bit.

"Steve, let's go smoke a stogie in the bar," Nate says after dinner.

"Ick," Lila says.

"It's not that bad," Tim says. "Let me just use the girls' room and I'll get us a nice dessert wine!"

"I'm not 21--" Lila says, but she is gone.

"Good call. I'm gonna hit the head too," says Nate.

"I'm sorry about what Nate said," Lila says, once we are alone.

"Still breaking him in, eh?" I laugh.

"Are you free for lunch tomorrow?" she says, and my cock goes instinctively stiff. But my gut is wrong; she can't want sex. If nothing else, she would never insult Tim that way.

"I--"

"There's something I need to talk to you about. Can you meet me at the office at 12?"

"You're working on a Saturday?"

"Just in the morning. So can you meet me?"

"Sure. Where do you work?" I smile.

"Shut up," she laughs.

Gum isn't pussy

2006-12-28T08:10:00.000-05:00

Psycho chicks are by far the best in bed.

Traumatic childhoods. Drug problems. Nasty breakups. All of them swirl around a woman's brain, flipping the cerebral switches necessary to turn her into a dick-loving sex fiend.

It all boils down to self-esteem, if you ask me. Remember the chick in high school who got her first boyfriend, and sat in class wistfully scrawling his name on her books? Remember how she couldn't go more than 30 seconds without talking about him, and then wandered the halls wailing like a widow when he finally dumped her for someone cuter? We all shake our heads sadly to hear about a chick who's that far gone. And we all long to have that power over someone.

The real sick ones, like Krista, only wish they could get some guy to commit. They don't try to find boyfriends, lest they get turned down or dumped, which would make them feel even worse.

"She needs help," you are saying. "She needs therapy. You should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage of her."

At my old office, there was a vending machine filled with Chicklets. It sat there for months, until, at some point, someone found out that the top was unlocked and could be pulled off, so that anyone could just reach in and pull Chicklets out, free of charge. The pure-hearted folks walked by it every day to get their coffee, never dreaming of taking candy without paying. Me? I indulged lustily, laughing as I grabbed overflowing fistfuls of the free gum, like a pirate running his fingers through a chestful of dubloons.

Yeah, I know, gum isn't pussy, but you see me working. I won't be the one to crack open the vending machine, but I'll help myself to what's inside. It's someone else's job to monitor such things, and to fix them when they break. If they don't, whatever happens is merely Darwin's law at work.

I guess I'm supposed to be Captain Goody Gumdrops, swooping in to carry Krista off to the therapist's office, wherein she will exorcise all her demons. And I am supposed to do it not for money, or thanks, or for any repayment at all, but simply because it is the Right Thing To Do, and knowing that should be more than compensation enough.

Or maybe I am supposed to be aloof, and simply run away from Krista. Maybe I should just walk by the vending machine and leave the gum alone.

First off, I'd be madder than a swarm of hiveless bees if someone tried to force therapy on me. In fact, people have, and that's just how I felt. Secondly, if something is in front of me, and it's free, and the only reason for not taking it is "it wouldn't be nice", I'm taking it. Oh, and this isn't exactly torture for Krista, anyway.

**********

Thursday, November 30, 2006, 6:30pm
Steve and Tim's house

"Nate's taking me to Ming Garden on Friday," Lila says.

"Damn, that's expensive!"

"So does that mean you don't want to come? You said you wanted to go on a double date with us."

"No, we'll come. That sounds like fun! Tim's gonna have to switch with someone to get the day off, I think."

"Are you guys doing okay?"

"Yeah, you know."

"What does that mean, 'you know'?"

"Nothing, we're fine."

"Are you cheating on her? You cheated on me, I know you did."

"Don't be silly, Lila."

"Did you?"

I should have no qualms about telling her the truth. I'm not with her anymore, and probably never will be again, and you all know how loathe I am to lie under any circumstances. Maybe I'm being nostalgic; maybe I want to preserve the idea that our relationship was pure and unspoiled. Even if the idea were only in Lila's mind, it would still be alive.

"No, Lila, of course not."

She pauses. "So, does Friday sound okay?"

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!!

2006-12-27T07:21:00.000-05:00

Remember the Brady Bunch episode when Marcia was supposed to go out with a guy named Charlie, but she broke their date to go out with Doug Simpson?

Sure, she liked Charlie and all, but Doug was the quarterback of the football team, and the most popular guy in school. So, Marcia did what most of us would have done, and told Charlie she couldn't make it.

In old-school sitcoms, this type of behavior is viewed with shocked disdain: Marcia might as well have been hiding pot inside the head of Cindy's Kitty Carry-all. Of course, the network television gods, with their uncanny ability to solve all human dilemmas within a half-hour (including commercials), saw to it that Marcia was duly punished for her aberrant behavior.

As even non-Brady fans will recall, shortly after extinguishing poor Charlie's testosterone-fueled fantasies, Marcia takes a football right in her formerly petite schnoz. And once Doug gets a load of Marcia's newly banged-up grill, he suddenly realizes he's got better things to do than be seen with the female version of DanielBEAK.

The incident helps Marcia understand her appalling behavior, and after her nose miraculously heals--literally overnight--she decides to go out with Charlie, the purehearted lug who didn't care what her nose looked like, kicking Doug to the curb. And wouldn't you know it? During the date, Doug shows up, he and Charlie fight, and in a Shakespearean twist, Doug runs home with a swollen nose.

This is how I learned morality: in 30-minute installments, complete with clearly-delineated rights and wrongs, and guaranteed happy endings. I never bought it, not even at 10 years old. Life doesn't work that way, I knew.

You probably chuckled at the ridiculousness of this episode, because you know there's no way it would have happened like that. After getting ditched, Marcia would never have gone back to Charlie: She would have descended to self-esteem hell, convinced that she was the ugliest creature ever to breathe earthly air, until A) she underwent a few years of therapy, or B)Doug asked her out again.

She would have pursued a course of action dictated not by "good vs. bad", but by what felt right. She wouldn't have analyzed why it felt right; she would have just done it.

Whether we admit it or not, most of us work the same way--and it's annoying when others try to steer us in a different direction.

A good example is the 65-mph speed limit. We can assess road and weather conditions, and we know our own driving abilities. We have a clear sense of how fast we can safely drive, and that's how fast we go. And we don't agonize about breaking the rules, because the rules are arbitrary; they were written by people who don't know anything about us.

There are legally-blind octagenarians, with licenses still in hand, who are completely within their rights to do 65 on the highway. Of course, they would probably kill someone if they did so, but it's legal. Formula I drivers, on the other hand, do three times that speed with another car six inches away from them. I'll ride with Dale Earnhardt Jr. at 80mph a hell of a lot faster than I'll ride with some Depends-clad senior citizen at 50. But of course, the rules tell us one of these men is bad, and the other is not.

Some people are emotionally incapable of cheating. They simply can't bring themselves to do it, or they are racked with guilt if they do. For them, it's clearly wrong, so they stay faithful. But they are faithful not because some rule says they have to be, but because that is what feels right to them.

The Brady Bunch is good television, but it's a farce. People like Marcia are superheroes of morality, making choices to benefit mankind before themselves. It's a fairy tale.

Far be it for me to disappoint, but I ain't Marcia Brady. Then again, you probably aren't either.

**********

Tuesday, November 21, 2006, 9:45am
Steve's office

"Do you want to come over for lunch?" Krista says.

The bottom falls out of my stomach.

With a simple question, she has managed to communicate to me that she wants sex, and that she is willing to have it secretly, without discussions of what this means or how we stand. I know a freebee when I hear one, and if I don't nail her, someone else will.

I wait for the guilt to come. It doesn't. Obviously, I will be safe, so I'm not jeopardizing anyone's health. I'm not breaking off a relationship to be with her, and neither is she. Hell, I'll be on my lunch break, so I won't even be wasting work time! I'll go back to work, and, at the end of the day, I'll go home, just like I always do.

"That sounds good... did you... I... did... could... I mean, I could... bring over some, Chinese, I guess--"

I'm surprised at how flustered I sound. Sure, I've played this scene out a million times, but not lately. In fact, not for well over a year. And it feels good, just like hearing a song from my high school days that I had totally forgotten about.

"Great! See you around noon?"

Stevo the fixer

2006-12-17T10:00:00.000-05:00

Thursday, November 16, 2006, 6:58pm
Steve's house

"Is Tim there?" Chris asks.

"No, she's working. Why, you gonna hit on her next?"

"Shut up. She's working at that steakhouse now, right?"

"Yeah, she comes home in the middle of the night."

"In that case, can you come over to Irene's house?"

**********

8:25pm

"Why are you being such a bitch?" Irene screams at Kristen.

"You're the one dating a married man!"

"Oh, like you didn't go out with a married guy last year," Irene hisses.

"He wasn't married in my eyes, because she didn't treat him right."

"Oh my God," Irene chuckles, derisively.

Kristen wheels around. "Oh, hi, Steven," she purrs, and her warm smile makes my stomach hitch. She kisses me slowly on the cheek, as if...

...as if she had a major crush on me. Was this the girl who was screaming uncontrollably 10 seconds ago?

"Sit down, I'll get you a drink."

"Thanks, Kristen."

"Call me Krista."

"You're engaged! Why are you still living at home, anyway?" Krista snaps to Irene, as she hands me an icy Diet Coke.

"You know why! We got engaged and he left for Iraq the next day!"

"Why didn't you live together before? And why did he go back to that idiotic war if he loved you so much?"

"Why don't you mind your own business?"

"Thought so," Krista says, plopping down on the sofa next to me.

"Steve has a girlfriend, you know," Irene sneers. "Better stay far away."

Krista launches herself off the couch, and for a crazy moment I think she's going to attack Irene. Chris and I flinch simultaneously, ready to break them up.

"Can we please go for a ride?" Krista asks, her eyebrows raised pleadingly, like a little girl's.

**********

"You probably think I'm crazy," Krista says.

Well, that's a very relative term... nope, on second thought, you're crazy.

"I think you two should lay off of each other."

"She's such a bitch!"

"Krista, no she isn't. And even if she is, she's your only sister."

"I knoww,"she whines, again reminding me of a child.

"I know you don't approve of her and Chris, but she's old enough to make her own decisions. If you really disagree, you should tell her in a supportive way."'

"So when did you get this car?" she asks, running her hand over the freshly-Armor All'd dashboard. Guess she's done talking about her sister.

"It's a couple years old. I hardly use it. I think I'm trading it in for a 4Runner."

"You're such a loser," she snips, staring straight ahead.

"You love to start fights, don't you?"

"You're stupid! You quit your job, you're selling your car. Your girlfriend has you wrapped around her little finger!"

Obviously, this girl thrives on conflict. She loves screaming matches and bare-toothed anger. Staying calm ought to screw her up, but good.

"Yeah, she probably does," I smile.

She stares at me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing."

She's 24, a couple of years older than Irene. No job. She quit school after sophomore year--not that her degree in archaeology was going to bring a stampede of hiring managers to her doorstep anyway--and she has absolutely no employment prospects.

"So what do you--do all day?"

"You sound like my mother."

"It's not good to sit around, Krista."

"Don't lecture me," she says, quietly, but I can barely hear her. "Can we talk about something else, please?"

The conversation turns to movies, and her mood lightens quickly. She loves Monty Python; all I have to do is utter the words, "Cheese Shop", and she collapses in giggles.

Tim calling, my phone says.

Instinctively, I glance at Krista, who has already pulled out her own phone. She powers it down noiselessly, then sits statue still, looking directly in front of her.

"Where are you?" asks Tim.

"I was out of wheat bread."

"You're being quiet."

"I'm okay. How's work?"

Krista stares silently out the window. I am impressed with her; she knew it was my girlfriend on the phone, and, with no hesitation, made herself as quiet as a Las Vegas confessional. She's done this before. She's sat in the passenger seat next to guys who were supposed to be at work, or drinking beer with their buddies. She's probably lost track of how many times.

"...so I told them that I can't do my job if I don't have proper equipment. It's like, so ridiculous! They have money for new curtains, but they can't buy a basket for the deep fryer?"

"I hear ya."

"I better get back," she sighs. "I'll see you when I get home."

Krista snaps back to life immediately as the phone beeps off. Here come the questions: How long have you two been dating, what does she do, do you love her, and are her hips skinnier than mine.

"I appreciate you getting me out of the house."

"You're welcome."

"There's a Starbuck's up ahead. I'll buy you a coffee, if you want."

She didn't mention Tim, not one word. She knows the rules, and apparently she accepts them. Clearly she lacks the self-respect to believe she deserves a real relationship, so she bounces from one taken man to another, giving each a couple of months' worth of sexual highlight reels before the inevitable "I can't do this to my wife anymore" speech.

Her face softens as she sips her latte, the way it did when she kissed my cheek. Her brown eyes seem bigger somehow, and I suddenly want desperately to kiss her as she licks foam from her supple lips...

Stupid is as stupid horny does

2006-12-11T10:20:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, November 1, 2006, 6:47pm
Steve's house

"Steve," Chris says, breathlessly, on the phone. "You gotta help me. I just--oh, man."

"Oh man?"

"Okay, so I told Janet I was working late tonight. And I went to the liquor store, and I paid with my credit card. She looks at the online statements all the time. She's gonna see I was here, and the bottle was like, 47 dollars--"

At first I have no idea what Chris is talking about. Then the concept gradually reveals itself, like a bathroom mirror slowly unfogging.

His wife Janet is due in a few weeks, and titanically pregnant women are not the horniest ducks in the pond; Chris must have found a pinch hitter to get him through the dry spell. He's probably romancing her with champagne, or getting her loaded so she'll talk less. There's no bigger turnoff than a chick who takes your cock out of her mouth to tell you how guilty she feels.

"Steve, are you gonna help me?"

"Yeah."

"I meant to pay with cash, but it was just force of habit," he says.

There's no way to keep her from seeing the transaction online now. His only option is to explain why he was at the liquor store dropping 50 bucks, instead of working, where he told her he would be.

You guys are probably thinking that this is easy, that Chris can just spit out some lie about buying a bottle for a friend at work or something. But remember, Chris has cheated before, and it almost ended his marriage. She's going to be suspicious of him, so this story better be worthy of publication in The New Yorker.

"This isn't going to be easy, man," I sigh. It seems knotty problems just like this are always being offloaded on me, both at work and personally. Just once, it would be nice if someone approached me about an untied shoelace.

Forget the notion of wanting to surprise his wife with a bottle. She's pregnant, and can't drink. Of course, a dutiful husband might think ahead, however...

"Okay, let's try this," I begin. "You went and bought a bottle of champagne, to open when the baby is born. Go home and tell her you got a little surprise at the liquor store on the way home for when the baby comes. Just make sure you really go and get a bottle today. And pay cash!"

"But what if the prices aren't exact..."

"Never mind the prices! Take the price tag off if you want to, but after the baby is born, the last thing on her mind is going to be checking out a story you told her a month ago."

"Ahhh," he says, slowly.

Now for some dirt. "Chris, what are you up to?"

"Not now, Steve."

**********

Friday, November 10, 2006, 4:00pm
Steve's office

"Can you meet me for a drink tonight?" Chris asks.

"With who? Just you?"

"No."

"You're introducing me now? You two must be getting serious!"

"Don't be a smartass. Her sister is coming along."

I must admit, Chris impresses me when it comes to the ladies. He must have game, if he was able to hook up with Amanda and now this one. But he's also making rookie mistakes, such as letting her bring her sister along. You never know: Her sister could know someone who knows someone who knows Janet, and then he would be truly fucked. The less evidence, the better: If I were in Chris's shoes, and this were just about sex, I wouldn't even leave her bedroom.

"A double date? How cute!"

7:30pm
Frattari Tavern

Irene is engaged, and her fiance is overseas in Iraq. She's majorly honked off that he signed on for a second tour of duty, which explains the cheating; women usually stray because they feel unloved.

She's hot beyond belief. I keep catching myself glancing at her shiny brown bob and thick red lips, and her flawless complexion tells me she's in her early 20's. Exactly the type I would go for.

It takes me about three and a half seconds to determine that her sister is a total nutjob. "I'm pissed at you," Kristen says to me, five seconds after shaking my hand.

"Why is that?" I smile.

"You quit a six-figure job? You just quit?"

Yes, but of course, the new job pays basically the same, and requires a lot less work. Factor in the improved mental health, and it's a raise. But none of this concerns her, so I choose not to answer.

"Something like that," I say, tilting back a vodka-tonic.

Chris is an idiot for dragging me into this. I have a girlfriend, too, lest we forget, and I'd have some explaining to do if she found out what was going on.

Kristen heads to the ladies' room, and I look at Chris and his new friend.

"She found out," Irene says. "She saw some text messages on my phone, and overheard me talking to him. The best way to deal with it was to have her meet him. We just brought you to kind of distract her."

"Text messages?" I say, looking at Chris.

"I..."

"Text messages? Why don't you just leave a bloody knife at the crime scene with your fingerprints on it?"

They exchange looks.

"I'm not judging you. Believe me, I'm not qualified to judge, and Chris knows that, which is why he dragged me into this. But if you two are gonna use each other for a pit stop, you shouldn't be out in public together. And you sure as hell shouldn't leave evidence around."

"But my sister..."

"Tell your sister it's none of her business!"

"You don't know her, Steve. She'll be better about it if she knows the details. We live at home, and it wasn't safe to bring you and Chris over."

"So where do you guys... hang out?"

"My mom works late a few nights a week."

I scowl at Chris. "Are you stupid?"

Hi, My Name Is Steve, and I Am Divorced

Match Game '11

What the eff was I thinking?

Cue the crickets

A breeze from the south

It's a Girl

What Mom Left Behind

Tricks and Treats

45 degrees and falling

Steve's therapy, redux

"...I'm guessing Jay Leno is out of the question..."

Lila and me

Open season

Okay, assholes, update time

Chapter 16: A (bare)Backstabbing

Chapter 15: Bismarck, North Dakota

Chapter 14: My fingers do the walking

Chapter 13: Christmas in February

18 and... No.

Chapter 12: A Little Too Much to Bear

Chapter 11: The Saw Mill Road

Chapter 10: What Would Stainer Do?

Coco the Ho

I left my heart gall bladder in San Francisco Hawaii

Can you believe the stones on this guy?

Steve's wedding: The aftermath

Steve's wedding: the duringmath, concluded

"I, Felicia, take you, Steven..."

Steve's wedding: The duringmath

Steve's wedding: The beforemath

I love the Patriots, and you are a pussy

T minus 7

Chapter 9: Neither Hair nor There

Chapter 8: A Double Decaf and a Skin Graft

Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

I TOLD SOMEONE

Chapter 6: Working for a Living

Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

Chapter 3: Stretch Goals

Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

Chapter 1: A Revelation

Happy Sunday

Stevo, the anabolic blogger

Ending the drought

Head for in the mountains

Bad for Baseball

Paying the Piper

"How about a fruit basket instead?"

"Men get lost sometimes, as years unfurl"

Chris crosses the line

"How about a moron instead?"

OMG, i totally just killed someone lol :-D

He says, she says - For whom the Belle tolls

Our new friends

The marrying man

Taking the "adult" out of adultery

With sincere condolences to women everywhere...

I guess the pills worked after all...

"That could be us"

From an FOS (Friend of Steve)

Stevo vs. James Frey

Good day, and welcome to post #400

Stevo is who we thought he was

Dichotomy

Too bad she didn't die in an M&M factory...

The double date

Gum isn't pussy

** HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!! **

Stevo the fixer

Stupid is as stupid horny does

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL!!