It's been far too long since I've blogged, as evidenced by the fact that I have ZERO idea how to get around here anymore! Jesus!
I'm really going to try to get back into this thing again, since a lot of you have been emailing me to see what I've been up to. I warn you though, I haven't fucked a single skank in over two years, so that aspect of my life is past.
If there are any Haloscan / Echo experts out there, I could use some help restoring my old comments. Supposedly there is an Echo plugin for Blogger, but I can't find it.
I am planning on being snowbound with Marissa this weekend, so I should have time to post again...
Until next time...
Thursday, February 07, 2013
It's been far too long since I've blogged, as evidenced by the fact that I have ZERO idea how to get around here anymore! Jesus!
Monday, May 02, 2011
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...!
Posted by Steve the Mildly Unwell Bastard at 6:04 PM
Sunday, May 01, 2011
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.
Posted by Steve the Mildly Unwell Bastard at 9:27 PM
Saturday, April 30, 2011
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!
Posted by Steve the Mildly Unwell Bastard at 1:24 AM
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009, 9:03am
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?"
"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..."
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."
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 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?"
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."
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."
"Then why do you work so much?"
"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 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.
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
I submitted this a while back to fieldreport.com... check it out...
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.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
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!"
"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?"
"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.
"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?"
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."
"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.
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.
Friday, February 27, 2009
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.
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?"
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.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
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...
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.