Friday, July 30, 2004

Bonnie and Clyde '04

With my friend's wedding coming up, it's time for another round of plotting and scheming with me and my fave partner in crime, Lila.

Lila usually takes the train to go see her dad.  So the idea for this time is:  Her mother drops her at the downtown train station, I pick her up there, and we drive to the wedding together.  The wedding is an hour south of her dad's house, about 200 miles from here. 

The ceremony is at 11 in the morning, and the reception is from 12:30 to 5:30.  So, I figure that we can just go straight to the wedding, and then I can bring her back to her dad's house afterwards.  She can hang out with him on Saturday night, and I'll stay at a hotel, and if her dad should flake on her, she can come to the hotel with me. 

On Sunday, she can get a ride from her dad to the train station, and I will pick her up there and take her home (or, more accurately, back to the downtown station, so her mother can pick her up there).  It's perfect!

"Just hang out with my dad and me," she says.  It's late on Tuesday night; we are talking on the phone.  We've been talking late at night a lot lately.  It is helping her cope with not being together so much, or so she says.

"No, Lila.  WHY is this so important to you?!" I say.

"Don't get mad at me, baby!!"

"Lila, I just got done telling you how much trouble I would be in if work found out.  Ross is already on to us."

"My dad doesn't know Ross.  DUH!" she snaps.

She is NOT getting snotty with me, is she?

"Well, he'll know him really quick if he goes nuts and calls the office," I say.

"He won't, Steve.  He doesn't CARE about that shit.  He met my other boyfriend, and he was 28.  He totally doesn't care!"

"I'm not taking that chance," I say.  "Baby?"

"What?"  She sounds pouty.

"Why do you want him to know so bad?"

"I just....want him to know how happy I am."

Excuse me while I puke.

"That's sweet, honey.  Just....not yet, ok?"



"I know, I know.  We have to play it safe," she says mockingly.

"So do you like my plan?"

"Of COURSE baby!  I ALWAYS love our plans..." she is talking to me in that little-girl voice that drives me mad.

"So what are you gonna wear to the wedding," I say.

"Haven't decided yet.  My red dress maybe?"

"I may have a surprise for you in that department," I say.  I've been shopping for dresses for Lila.  It's her birthday in a couple of days.  I think I found a dress I like - for ONE THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS.  Yeah.  A thousand. 

I'm in the wrong line of work.

"I have a birthday present for you too, baby!  Actually, more than one," she says.  (My birthday is in a week and a half.) 

"Can I give you one of them before we go to the wedding?" she asks.

"You didn't have to get me anything, baby!"

"I love you!  Of course I got you something!"

"Baby, you are just so cool.  Why are you so sweet to me?"

Ok, did I just say that?

"Because I love you SO much.  I would do anything for you!"

My BlackBerry goes off.  Kelly. 


"Baby, I'm gonna get ready for bed.  K?"

"Wish I was there!" she says.

"Me too."

I call Kelly.

The phone doesn't even ring before she picks up.  "Hi, babe!"

"Hey.  I'm just getting ready for bed."

"Who were you talking to?"

What the fuck.  WHAT THE FUCK!!!  Is this chick turning psycho on me?

"None of your fucking business!"

Oops.  I think I sounded a little too mean there.

"Mmmmm, feisty," she says.  Sounds like her mouth is full.

"What are you eating?" I ask.

"Pizza.  Taylor's here."

Ahhhhhhh, Taylor.  That's right, Rob is away this week and the two of them are hanging out.  I GOTTA get involved somehow.  The possibility of a bona fide threesome is just too real!

"So what are you two doing tonight?" I say.

"Not much, just a couple of movies, and bed."

"Separate beds!" I hear Taylor say in the background.  They giggle.

You know, sometimes I think Kelly is more gay than straight.

"Any room for me," I say.

"Noooo, no no no!" Kelly says.  "YOU said you were getting ready for bed!"

"Looks like someone is whack-iiiing," Taylor says.

"Come hang out with us on Friday!" Kelly says.

"OK."  SHIT, yeah.  Friday could be very fun.

"So what did you want," I say.


"Your message said, 'please call me right away'.  Is something wrong?"

"To find out how you're doing!  And invite you out Friday!" Kelly says.  "And I just wanted to tell you I was thinking about you."

"GAAAAAAAG!" says Taylor.  Is she drunk?

Yeah, thinking of me.  But do you think of me before or after you bury your face in Taylor's snatch?  Not that there's anything wrong with that...

"Thanks, Kel."

This is shaping up to be an epic sexual weekend.

Thursday, July 29, 2004

CEO: (Ch)easiest job in America

I keep waiting for the reality show in which they pluck a homeless bum out of a puddle of his own piss, clean him up, slap a $3000 suit on him, and make him a corporate CEO.  Week after week, viewers would look at each other in amazement as they realize that the company runs just fine, despite him.  In fact, in some cases the company's productivity would increase, since some know-it-all wouldn't be trying to tinker with things he doesn't understand...

CEO's of large corporations have a few jobs, most of them easy:

  1. Wear expensive clothes;
  2. Tell funny, interesting stories relevant to the topic at hand; and,
  3. Hire knowledgeable, competent people to actually run the day-to-day operations of the company.
If you can do these three things, then you, too, could be a corporate CEO.

Sure, I'm oversimplifying somewhat.  But don't let any big-time CEO tell you he is sweating his balls off, working long hours to run the company.  He isn't.  He's playing golf, taking Mondays and Fridays off, and probably nailing his secretary (not that there's anything wrong with that, natch).

I always joke that CEO stands for "Cheesy Executive Overdresser".  Our CEO, Dan Johnson, typifies this.  He soaks himself in harsh European colognes, wears blindingly shiny suits, and is known throughout the industry as something of an "eccentric".

Dan loves gimmicks.  Back in the early 90's, when Ross Perot was running for president, Perot popularized "flip-chart" presentations.  No sooner did he do so, than Dan stole the idea.  Dan still uses those charts to this day.  He even, embarrassingly, jokes about how Perot "stole" his flip-chart idea.

When Dan is headed to an out-of-town meeting, he gets a list of names of attendees for his presentation.  Then, he brings folding cardboard name tags to place in front of everyone's seat.  He brags that this is for a "personal touch".  Yeah, great.  He comes off as warm and personable by referring to people by their first names, without having to remember any.

Dan insists on being called "Mr. Johnson".  "Part of my job is to be a teacher," he says.  "And when you were in school, did you call your teachers 'Mary', or 'Joe', or 'Bill'?  NO.  You called them 'Mr. Smith', or 'Mrs. Brown'.  So that's how I expect you to refer to me."

I think this is a great idea.  In fact, just to get the full effect of being a real teacher, Dan ought to accept the $40,000 annual salary that Mr. Smith and Mrs. Brown probably have to live on, instead of the 750 large HE makes each year.

Of course, none of us peons merit the same respect as "Mr. Johnson", so we're all referred to by first names.  Looking around the table at the name tags is always good for a chuckle:  "Phil", "Steve", "Ross", "Bonnie", and then, in huge, dark capital letters:  "MR. JOHNSON". 

I know I sound pretty critical of ol' Dan, but he's always been very good to me.  He's taken me golfing several times, and he compliments me for how well I am doing at work.  He always ends our talks by telling me that he appreciates all the hard work I do, and that he hopes I stay with the company for many years to come.  I just get a bad vibe from him:  A feeling that he is fake, as if you could cut his arm and find solid plastic, like a kid's toy.

Early this month, after my week-long business trip, Dan came out to see us, flip-chart and name tags in tow.  He sat all the principals down in the conference room (about 10 of us).

Mr. Johnson is at the head of the table, his acidic cologne burning our nasal passages, his flashy suit blinding us with its glare.

"We want to be the number one insurance company in the world," he is saying.  "Not number two, number ONE.  And not just in the US; in the WORLD!  One of the ways we are trying to do that is, we are growing by buying smaller insurance agencies.  We call this ACQ-UI-SI-TION."  He stretches the word out as if he were speaking to a group of five-year-olds.

"Last month, as you know, one of your coworkers was out on the road, investigating some of these possible ACQ-UI-SI-TIONS....."

Hey, Mr. Johnson, let's make a deal:  You stop "teaching" us words we already know, and we get to call you "Dan".  How does that grab you?

All eyes turn to me.  Everyone knows that I am the "coworker" who was out on the road last month.

"Now, Steve, why don't you tell us what you found out there on the road," he says.

Oh, you're involving me in your presentation now?  Thanks for the heads-up.  Dickhead.

"The offices were very poorly run," I say.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Dan says, interrupting me.  "Who can tell me what was wrong with that statement?"


"Negative," Dan says slowly.  "NEG-a-tive."

ANOTHER new word?  Dear Lord, Dan, we can only absorb so much knowledge in one sitting!

"Steve said the offices were 'POORLY run'.  That sounds pretty negative, doesn't it?  No one likes to hear negative statements, do they!  Does anybody in this room like to hear negative statements like that?"  He pauses, looking around the room.  Silence.

"So how about this," he continues.  " 'The offices had a lot of OPPORTUNITIES to REDUCE EXPENSES and INCREASE EFFICIENCY?'  Hah?"  He says, nodding enthusiastically.  Heads bob up and down around the table.

"OK, Steve, try it again," he says.

"So these offices were very poorly run..." I say.

Thunderous laughter.  Dan is laughing too.  This time.

"..and I spoke to them about our acquisition program, and reviewed all of our reports and procedures, which was the purpose of the trip.  And with the time that remained, I pointed out ways that they could process their work smarter and faster.  And cheaper."

"EXCELLENT, Steve!" Dan says.  "EX-CELLENT!!"  He is holding his thumb and forefinger together, as if complimenting a fine wine.

"And I want to point something out," Dan says.  "Every one of those offices called me to compliment Steve.  EVERY-SINGLE-ONE.  They all told me they are going to save big money, thanks to him."  He pauses, and smiles at me.  I nod in acknowledgement.

"People ask me why I spend so much time on the golf course," Dan says.

Why do I sense a corny joke in my future?

"My WIFE asks me why I spend so much time on the golf course.  And I tell her it's because it takes me six hours to play a nine-hole course."

Polite laughter.

"And it would take me longer, but I usually run out of balls around the fourth hole, and go home."

More laughs.

"You know, I don't think a score card should have exponents!"

Still more laughter.

Dan, get yourself an agent!  I smell a sitcom deal!!

"Actually," he says, "the reason I go out there is because that's where I get my best ideas.  Things usually come to me as I'm trudging my way through the woods, looking for my ball."

OK, we get it.  You're a shitty golfer.  Can we move on?

"And what occurred to me is that we need to have this kind of a review for every single agent in the country.  EVERYONE needs to review his or her procedures.  Us too!  Every-single -agent needs to be visited just like these few were visited last month.  Wouldn't that be great?  Wouldn't that make them more profitable, and less busy?  And with them more profitable, and less busy, won't they go out, and sell some more business?  And make us some more money, so I can buy some more golf balls?"

Chuckle, chuckle.  A bullet in the back of the head would feel really good right now.

"Let me make a suggestion," I say.  All heads turn to me in unison.  I am aware that Dan was in the middle of something, and that this is somewhat rude of me.

"We would be pretty silly if we were educating our agents on efficiency, and the training itself was inefficient," I say.  "That trip cost the company a thousand dollars, and I saw eight offices.  That's over a hundred dollars per office.  Multiply that by 1,000 offices, and it's over a hundred thousand dollars.  It would take an awful lot of new business to make that up."

"Are you saying this is a bad idea-" Dan begins.

"What if, instead of going to the offices, the offices came to US?" I say, talking over him.  Bad career move, stepping on the boss's toes, I know.  But I don't like the direction in which Dan is going.

"Not to US, exactly, but what if we got 50, or 100, or 250, agents to a convention hall and did a seminar once for all of them, instead of 250 times individually?"

Some heads nod.

Dan laughs.  "Steve, the reason you succeeded is because you observed their workplaces, and you SAW what their problems were, firsthand.  How will you do that at the Marriott Hotel convention room?"

"We don't NEED to see their problems.  We need to tell them the proper way to do their work.  It's their job to implement it, and to eliminate any procedures that don't work well."

He puckers his lips thoughtfully.  "Do you think Joe agent is going to be able to do that?  Come back and put these ideas into practice?"

"If we do our job right?  YES," I say.

"So we're asking them to shell out the money to fly to Timbuktu, and stay at a hotel?" Ross says. 

Thanks, buddy.

"We can do them regionally, so people don't have to fly anywhere.  We can also make it a one-day seminar so no one has to stay at a hotel if they don't want to .  Even if there are only 25 agents in a group, it's infinitely better than doing them one at a time."

"I don't know," says Ross.  "Speaking to 25 or 50 people at once, trying to teach them things?  It never works!"

Thanks AGAIN, pal!

Time to hit back.

"That sounded pretty negative, didn't it, Mr. Johnson?"

The room fills with laughter.  Dan nods his head up and down.  "What's he trying to say, Steve?"

"That there are challenges associated with training large groups of people on such highly detailed procedures."

"EXCELLENT, Steve, EX-CELLENT!!"  The thumb and forefinger again.  "And what is your solution, because I have a feeling you have one."

"When I was in college, I had a philosophy class with 250 people in it," I say.  "In that kind of atmosphere, people aren't comfortable asking questions.  So, one class every week was set aside for a "recitation," in which we broke up into groups of 30 or 40 students.  A teacher's assistant would lead the recitation class, and we could ask questions and have in-depth discussions."

"So you propose breaking up the agents into groups of 30 after they get to the convention hall?" Dan says.

"Groups of ten or twenty would be better," I say.  "We'd have to bring more people to conduct the seminars, but it would still be much cheaper than the alternative."

"I like it," Dan says, finally.

Take THAT, Ross.  Fucker.

9:00pm.  Dan, Ross, and I are at the most exclusive steak house in the area.  I ate half my prime rib and left the rest.  No way I am challenging my colon twice in seven days.

After dinner, we retire to the bar and drink some dessert wine.  "It's a crime you can't smoke cigars here anymore," Ross says.

"Ross, what would you say if I hired ol' Steve here away from you and brought him to corporate to handle M & A [mergers and acquisitions] for me?"

HFS (Holy fuckin' shit)!  That's a $200,000 job, easy.  Plus commissions!  I do ok now, not THAT great, but I'm not complaining.  This would be a huge bump.  I'd have to move, but so what? 

Ross looks down at the polished hardwood.  "Who would run my office?" he says.

Next time, Ross, use a little vaseline.

See you guys tomorrow...

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

Sex and cleaning. And oh yeah, Steve is clinically insane.

It's Saturday. 

After blowing a disgusting, juicy, fish-smelling, nasty-ass fart right in front of the accounting manager, I figure I've done enough damage for one day, so I prepare to leave.  It turns out she had run the report for 2003 instead of 2004, so she starts it again for the proper date range and then heads home.  The report will print out on its own when it's finished, so I can leave too.  I'll review the report on Monday.

After the fart, I didn't apologize.  I didn't turn red.  I didn't react at all.  I pretended it never happened.  If I had started stammering and begging for forgiveness, it would have turned into the funniest thing Melissa had ever seen (and heard, and smelled).  But because I didn't acknowledge it, she probably walked out of my office wondering if it had, in fact, happened at all.  It's just like my dad says:  Life is 10% what happens to you, and 90% how you deal with it.

But not to worry.  I am sure it's going to be all over the office on Monday.  I am probably going to be called "GasMan", or some other ridiculous nickname, for the rest of my career.

I take three more Maalox and head out the door.  I call Lila from the road.

"Hi baby," she says on the first ring.

"I'm on my way.  Are you ready?"


I pull up to Lila's house.  It looks strange in the bright, clear daylight.  I realize that I've never really been here before dark.  It's actually quite an attractive property:  The grass is thick, plush, meticulously mowed, and deeply green; mums grow along the footpaths; lilacs perfume the air.  The condo is attractively clad in beige vinyl siding with forest green shutters.

I ring the bell.  Lila opens the door.  "Bye mom," she says, and quickly walks out, closing the door behind her. 

Damn.  I was hoping to get a look at her mother.

"Let's go," she says.  She looks... angry.

We are at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for the traffic to break so we can pull out.  She grabs my face, one hand below my chin, the other at the top of my head.  She plants her lips on mine, kissing me deeply.

"LILA!  We're still in the parking lot!"

"I am SO fucking crazy right now.  I can't take this.  I want you SO fucking bad, Steve.  I have to fuck you right now."

"We'll be there in 10 minutes," I say, pulling onto the road.

She kisses me on the ear.  Her warm breath, and the sound of her lips touching me, sends chills down my spine.  "Find someplace to pull over," she says.

I think back.  Damn, it's been about two weeks since I've been with Lila.  The last time was in my office, I think.

"I couldn't take it," she is saying.  She is kissing my neck.  "I miss you so much.  I sit around the house [kiss] and I think about you [kiss] and I just wish I could [kiss] kiss you and [kiss] hold you..."

I am instantly hard.  My muscles start to get weak.  I can barely see.  I can barely think.  My mind is suddenly locked on the idea of fucking her.  NOW.  Not 10 minutes from now.  Not 2 minutes from now.

I am shaking.  My heart is pounding.  I am either the most turned on I have ever been, or I am about to die of a heart attack.

I turn left onto a side street.  A large sign reads, "Maplewood Estates".  The street is about 300 yards long, ending in a cul-de-sac.  There is a federal-style colonial at the base of the cul-de-sac; a car is in the driveway.  There are 4 or 5 other houses on the street, in various stages of construction.  I pull off to the right shoulder, amid the dirt, mud and rocks. 

There is no conversation.  There is no need for any.  This is a huge mistake, but I am totally fucking out of control.  It's like I am outside my body, watching myself.  WTF is happening to me, man?  I thought I had it together!

I am marginally aware that the car is shaking violently as we tear our clothes off.

This is stupid.  There are safe ways to fuck in a car, and UNsafe ways.  The safe way is to remove only as much clothing as you have to, so you can make a fast getaway if need be.  The DUMB way is to get totally, bare-ass naked.  Like Lila and I am now.

She is panting heavily, her big tits rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath.  She sweeps her hair out of her face and glares at me, her mouth closed firmly.  It's almost like she's pissed, again.

She reclines her seat as far back as it will go.  It doesn't go very far; just enough to get the job done.

I am on top of her.  I watch as the swollen, bulbous head of my cock slides smoothly into her.  I listen to the choppy sound of my breath as I repeatedly thrust my full shaft inside her squishy, wet hole.  I am grinding wildy away at her, and she is thrusting her hips back at me in perfect synch.

She grabs me around the back of the neck.  It occurs to me that I can't see, and I panic for a brief moment until I realize that my eyes have rolled back in their sockets.  I can hear the squeaking of the car's shocks, but just barely, as if it were far away.

Now her hands are on my scalp.  She squeezes a handful of my hair into her fist and pulls desperately, as if that were the only thing keeping her from falling off a cliff.  It hurts, but the pain is weirdly disconnected from me, like someone else's pain.

There is no technique on my part.  There is no effort to prolong the sex, or make it better for her.  Or me.  It is pure, raw, animal lust, and it's fucking amazing.  And scary.

Would I kill?  I think.  Would I fucking kill someone for this feeling?

I come for what feels like an hour.  I collapse next to Lila, catching my breath, my heartbeat slowing down to normal.

Lila's seat is drenched in cum.  "I guess I have something to clean now," she says.


We get to the house, and there is basically nothing to clean.  She changes the sheets on the bed and puts away my white laundry.  I am sitting at my computer, working.

She comes over and sits on my lap.  She stares silently at me, looking at every inch of my face.  She plays with my hair, and rests her head on my chest.

"I love you," she says.

Say it back, you asshole.

I just had the most amazing, mind-blowing sex of my entire life.  If I live to be 100, I may never have sex like that again.  So what the fuck is my problem?  It's never going to get any better than this! Maybe it's time to commit to her.  Maybe it's time to get over whatever stupid issues I have and go for it.


"You are so amazing," I say.

"Thank you!" she says.  "Hey!  Guess what?"


"My mom said I could stay with my dad next weekend!!"

"Awesome, baby!"

"I think I wanna tell him the truth about where I'm going.  And who I'm going with."


"Steve, my dad is a convicted criminal.  He spent 10 years in jail.  He doesn't speak to my mom.  I can tell him.  He's not gonna care!"


"Trust me.  Please?"

"We'll talk about it."

Lila decides it would be a good idea to plant some bulbs along the side of the house, so we go down to the local nursery (I let her drive) and buy some.  We get home and plant them, and it's just about time to go.

We get cleaned up and watch a little of "I Love the 90's" on VH1.  How fucking funny is that Michael Ian Black, anyway?  She is next to me on the couch, leaning her head lazily against my shoulder.

This is normally where I would make a move on her.  But I am fucking tapped out.  I don't want to have sex right now!  How crazy is that?  The mind-altering screw in the car actually satiated me, believe it or not.

I keep thinking about Lila wanting to tell her dad about us.  Should I trust her?  I feel like I should.  But why do I get the feeling that, if I do, I'm going to regret it? And what the hell happened in the car?  Did Steverino finally go over the edge.........?

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Over the hills and fart away

After my post-climactic shower with Kelly, I hop in the car and race home. I was having a really good time with her, but my stomach is still killing me.

I didn't realize until I got into the car just how many farts I had been holding in. berr-rrrrrrrrrrrap! bap-bap-bap-bap! My ass is a machine gun, blasting out hot balls of gas, one after the other. It feels good, but my little car smells like a boatload of rotting fish. I open all the windows, and I can still smell it.

I get home and try to take a shit. Nothing. I don't like to rush these things with laxatives: I find it's better to let nature take its course.

I go to bed, and I am asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. I wake up at 3am to a strange dream...

A man steals my wallet at knifepoint, then stabs me right in the gut. I can feel the knife slicing my insides. It hurts!

I snap awake, and sit up. I am doubled over almost instantly with severe abdominal cramps. I run to the bathroom.

NOTHING. Then, a massive fart. Loud and deep, it sounds like a Harley Davidson. Then another big fart, then another.

Why the hell did I close the bathroom door? I live ALONE, for Christ's sake! And the smell is really starting to get to me, believe it or not. Since when does a man not like the smell of his own farts?

Finally, the cramps pass. I get up and check my e-mail for a few minutes. I am really tired, and my stomach feels good enough to go back to bed. So I do.

5:00am. I awaken to another round of cramps. More huge ass-blasts: One that sounds like a jackhammer, one like a trumpet, one like a diesel truck. But still no shit.

Whenever I suffer from constipation, which is not often, I go for a long jog, and that usually loosens everything up down there. It also helps to get rid of gas, I find.

I run for five miles. By the time I get home, I am sprinting for the bathroom.

FINALLY, paydirt. A LOT of paydirt.

I fill the bowl with a pile of brown, wet cement-like shit (what, you didn't think I was going to describe it?), sticking up out of the water like a volcano. Forget two-flushers; this is, like, an eight-flusher. But I feel much better.

I decide to head into work very early so I can get my project over with and start my weekend. I am supposed to call Lila after I am done so she can come over and clean. I figure I have six hours of work to do, at least.

I get to work around 7:30, and start cranking out reports. I am way ahead of schedule.

All of a sudden, I get a sharp pain in my abdomen. Another fart. berrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...... it trails off. It's weaker than the others, but still bad: A vaguely low-tide type of smell. I'll probably have these "aftermath" stinkers for several hours, at least.

9:00. Melissa, the accounting manager, arrives. I asked Melissa for her login password yesterday, so I could access her computer today and run a report that I needed. She acted very concerned about giving me her password; so much so that she actually offered to come in today rather than give it to me. "Maybe there are some....other things I could help you with while it's running," she says.

Now, I know what you guys are thinking, and please stop. Melissa is about 50, and overweight. Not to be crude, but I wouldn't fuck her with someone else's dick.

Melissa gets the report started, and I give her a couple of spreadsheets to update.

9:30. Tommy comes in. "I'm just here to clean off my desk for next week. I'm way behind," he says. "Let me know if you need something."

WTF. Is EVERYONE working today?

10:30. Melissa comes to my desk with the report. "This is strange," she says.

"You mean it's DONE?" I ask. "That was fast. TOO fast! That report should have taken at LEAST two hours."

"Not only that," she says, "but look at these numbers!"

I take the report and turn to the section where it shows our year-to-date cash revenues. They are far too low. Shit.

The report ran faster than it should have. The numbers are too low. I wonder if.....

An IM window pops open on my computer. It's Tommy.

TOMMY: That lawyer chick was talking about you yesterday

STEVE: What lawyer? Julie?

TOMMY: Yeah the Asian one

STEVE: what did she have to say?

TOMMY: Says you broke her heart - says you must be a fuckin faggot

STEVE: Shut up man

TOMMY: I don't know what your problem is - she is fuckin incredible - maybe you are a fuckin homo

STEVE: The only thing I'm puttin up your ass is my shoe

Julie is such a fucking baby. I talk to her a few times, and then "dump" her (we weren't really dating), and I "broke her heart"? I don't think I even kissed her! Then again, this is Tommy I'm dealing with. He's probably exaggerating.

Huge cramp. I can barely sit upright. I lift a leg and rip off a long, loud fart.

berrrrrrrrr-RAAAAAAAAAAAAP! Pap-pap-pap!

It was loud, piercing and whiny, like one of those motorized mini-bikes that kids ride. And the smell? This thing could peel wallpaper! I take a deep breath through my nose and chuckle to myself like a little girl.

I hear breathing behind me. I turn around.

Melissa is still standing there.

That fucking dump of a pizza place ought to be shut down.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Bad pizza and good sex

First, let me assure all of you that it will be a very interesting week in my little corner of the blogosphere, since I am yet again backlogged (or should I say, "backBlogged") with good stories...

Friday, 6:30pm.  Phone.  Kelly.


"Hey babe!" she says.

"What's up?"

"I know you're crazy busy, and I figure you're too busy to hang out tonight, but I just wanted to make sure you're ok.  Do you need anything?"

OK, this is not Kelly.  There is NFW this is genuine.  Kelly is always plotting and scheming, always trying to get a leg up on me somehow.  It is simply not possible that she has suddenly turned into the supportive, caring girlfriend.  This is a fucking act.

But what is her purpose?  Is she trying to lure me into a trap, make me her boyfriend?  Does she WANT a boyfriend?  Or does she want to shift the balance of power so that I am pursuing her, just so she can say that she won?  This is Kelly, so I guess I'll never know.

"No.  But a drink tonight might be nice," I say.

"OK.  Meet me at Doc's at 9?"


"Don't tell me you're planning on still being there at 9 o'clock!"


"Just be there?  Please?"  She's begging me in a little-girl voice.  I actually like it.

"OK, I'll see you there."

"YAY!  Bye!!"

"Bye, Kel."

Yeah, I'll find the bunny boiling on my stove any day now.

Actually, I really like the idea of a few drinks and some nice conversation.  I am really stressing out with all this high-pressure, labor-intensive, deadline-driven work.

While I am working, a guy from IT comes into my office.  He and a few of his coworkers are working late also, rebuilding one of the servers.

"Dude, we're gettin' a 'pizza all the way'!  You in?"

"Pizza all the way" is one of the worst things you can do to your intestinal tract.  It's a little dish they make at a restaurant down the street, and it's pretty much what the name implies:  Pizza, with every conceivable topping.  Pepperoni.  Onions.  Clams.  Olives.  Meatballs.  And, I'm convinced, anything lying around the kitchen at the time.  I keep expecting to bite into a slice and find someone's house key, or an ATM receipt, or some spare change. 

I've had it several times, and it actually tastes different every time.  That makes me pretty friggin nervous, I tell ya.  It's just evidence that there is no set recipe for this thing.

But I figure, what the hell?, and kick in a few bucks.  I am starving.

The pizza comes, and I take two slices back to my desk.  That's my limit, I think to myself.

The theme of today's pie is:  SEAFOOD.  Each time I raise a slice to my lips, I am overwhelmed with a fishy odor.  I like fish, so I don't really mind, but DAMN is it strong!  I'm pretty sure it's anchovies, but I'm not positive.

I wolf down the two slices, and I'm still ravenous.  So I go back to IT and the guys have a few pieces left.  "Wicked fishy today, dude," one of them says, looking green.  I take one more back to my office, and as I munch away, I am vaguely aware that I am going to regret this.

8:30.  My stomach is in knots.  I chew 3 Maalox tablets and head over to Doc's.  Just in case, I toss about 10 more tablets into my pocket before I leave.

I am in NO fucking mood for Kelly's bullshit today.   She better be straight as an arrow, and if she wants to fuck, she better not make me work for it, because I am way too tired and frustrated to deal.  I can always go home and spank it.

I am 10 feet in the door when Kelly runs up to me, beaming, drink in hand.  "BA-BEEEEEEEE!!" she screams, hugging me tightly.

"Hey," I say, sheepishly.

"You made it," she says, wiggling her head as if she were dancing. 

Her face turns serious.  She looks up at me, her eyes big and round with concern.  "Are you ok?" she says, raising her eyebrows.

"Kel.  I'm fine, ok?"

"OK, OK!  I'm getting you a drink."  She takes my hand and leads me to the bar.

"You know what we haven't done yet?" she asks, as I sip my vodka and tonic.

"You mean there's something we haven't done yet?"

"We haven't gone away together!  Well, the cabin, but that wasn't exactly you and me.  That was you, me, and a bunch of other people."

Actually, I could use a nice, relaxing vacation.  Somewhere by the water, preferably....

But what the hell is she up to now?  Is this all part of the master plan?  Am I being hooked in, in my state of increased vulnerability?

Fuck this.  I'm not doing it.

"Not yet, Kel."

"OK.  Just a suggestion!  Will you at least let me buy you dinner next week?"

"Of course!"


She looks up at me.  Her eyes are locked intently on mine.  "You really work hard, don't you?"

I nod.

"I just wanna hold you right now," she says.  She hugs me. 

Ahh, for Christ's sake. 

Kelly looks really good today.  Her hair is down.  She is wearing a tight, low-cut top, and a lot of cleavage is showing.  Her top almost looks like spandex, shiny and stretchy .  And she's wearing tight jeans.  Her ass is looking plump and juicy, I must say.  And she's got platform sandals on, which I love.

My stomach starts gurgling:  MERRR-RRRRRRRR.  Of course, I can't hear it in the noisy bar, but I can feel it.  The alcohol is not mixing well with that damn pizza. 

I feel like the pizza hasn't digested at all.  My stomach feels full and bloated.  It reminds me of when I used to be fat and overate frequently.

I excuse myself and go to the men's room.  I whip out and start to piss, but I don't really have to go.  This is just an excuse to release some gas.  And what gas it is!


Holy shit!  And it stinks, too.  There is a guy in the stall.  Poor bastard.  The next person who comes in here is going to think that the smell is coming from him.

Kelly is very attentive and talkative today.  I am starting to unwind and enjoy the conversation.  She's actually pretty interesting to talk to.

"So what was your favorite TV show growing up?" she says.

"Gilligan's Island," I say.

"Ahhhh, Mary Ann, right?"

"Oh.  Yeah.  She was REALLY hot," I say.  "But I just like the idea that these 7 people had their own little world, and they had their own little routines, and no one could interfere...."

"Wow.  You really are anal, aren't you?"

"What was your favorite?" I ask.

"The Love Boat."

"The Love Boat?"

"Oh God, yeah!  I loved how these people got on the boat, and they had these little relationships, and sometimes they worked out, and sometimes they didn't.  It was just nice to see how the guys and the girls approached each other, what they said, how they reacted, and what ended up happening with them."

"Do you like soap operas?" I ask.

"Yeah, they're ok, a little dramatic though.  I just like The Love Boat because the whole affair would be squeezed into one hour.  It had a beginning, a middle, and an end.  I would always wonder what happened to the couples after the episode ended.  I even...."

"You even WHAT?"

"Oh GOD," she says, rolling her eyes.  "I've never told this to anyone..."

"I'm listening."

"I used to keep a notebook of all the couples that met on the show, their stories.  And I used to write down what I thought happened to them after the show ended."

"That is fucking GREAT!" I say.  "Do you still have it?"

"No.  You don't think it's dumb?"

"No, Kel!  I think that's really cool.  It shows that you have a different way of looking at things than most people.  I like it!  Who else would think of something like that?"

"Thanks, Steve."

My stomach.  MERRRR-RRR-RRRRRRRR!  It's getting worse.

I go to the men's room and fart again, and take three more Maalox.  The fart is frigging disgusting.  It smells just like fish.  But that's not POSSIBLE!  I just ate the fishy pizza a couple of hours ago!! 

I am starting to worry.  What if I am fucking, or getting blown tonight, and I blow one?  Oh, the embarrassment... 

It's 11:00.  I am way too tired to have a late night tonight.  "So where are we going tonight," I say.

"How about my place?" she says.


I follow her there.  There is no way I am sleeping at her house, especially not with THIS gas.  I chew three more Maalox, and feel a bit better.

We get inside the house, and Kelly checks her messages.  Then she walks to the kitchen counter, and leans over to check her mail, her long hair spilling down in front of her.  She idly puts it behind her ear.  She is so fucking beautiful.

I come up behind her.  "Put that mail down," I say.

She turns around and faces me.  Our noses are touching.  "I missed you this week, baby," she says.  "I was thinking about you last night."

I get hard, right on cue.

"Just last night?"

"And the night before..."

"What were you thinking?" I say.

"I was thinking it's been awhile for us."

"Yeah.  It has been."

She kisses me, slowly and passionately.  "I think I've been a bad girl," she says.

What, are you fucking your husband again?


"I need to be slapped."

Ooooooh, that! Now I get it!

I watch as she pulls the stretchy top over her head, and the way her hair gets tossed about as she does it.  Now she is unbuckling her belt, stepping out of her sandals, pulling her pants down.  She isn't wearing any underwear...

I take off my pants and drop them to the floor, and it suddenly occurs to me that we are still in the kitchen.  Fair enough!

I bend Kelly over the kitchen table.  A thin strand of hair goes into her mouth; she removes it with her middle finger.  I find that move so sexy.

I smack her on the ass with an open hand.  She moans softly.  "Again!" she says.

I yank her hair; her head snaps back.  I slap her harder, leaving a big red welt.  "OHHHHHHH," she says.

MERRRR-RRR-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!, goes my stomach.  It's incredibly loud, almost like a fart.

"Oh my god!  Is that your stomach?  I THOUGHT I heard that in the bar!" she said.  "What the hell did you eat?"

"Pizza all the way."

"Oh, GROSS!  I'll get you some Pepto," she says, standing up.  Way to kill the fucking mood, Steve.

"I've been taking Maalox all night," I say.  "I'm ok."

"Just don't fart on me," she says, kissing me.  "OK?"

We laugh.  She is kissing me more deeply now, her tongue wetly caressing mine.  The room is perfectly quiet, except for our smacking.  That sound drives me crazy.

I sit her down on the kitchen table.  She opens her legs to me, looking up at me beseechingly.  I shove my cock inside her.  The pleasure is immediate and intense.  It's the drug, again.  And this time is going to be VERY good.

She hugs my waist with her legs.  I thrust myself into her, again and again.  I look down and watch as the lips of her vagina turn inside out each time I pull back.  I bend over and suck on her nipple.  I lick her firm, protruding breast, feeling its heft on my tongue.

We fuck for endless minutes.  I can feel her heat, her wetness.  I am going to fucking explode.  If I don't shit myself first.

She takes my finger and places it on her clit, then rubs it in lazy circles.  She's biting her lip now, ready to come.  She grabs my shoulders, squeezes my waist tighter.  I can feel her nails digging into my skin.  "Fuck me," she coos into my ear.  "Fuck me with your nice big cock.  Don't stop.  You are sooo good-"

She runs her hand through her hair.  "Oh God-hah-hah-OOOOOOOOOOOH!!!!"

I look at her body, her smooth skin, her firm, toned muscles, they way everything seems to tense up in the throes of orgasm.  She really is a beautiful woman.

I pull out of her and slide my jimmy off.  I start to rub my cock against her finely-trimmed bush.  It feels awesome.  "Rub it," I say.

She spits on her hand and starts to masturbate me.  My body starts to shudder, and I know I am going to come incredibly hard.  The first blast goes straight up, surprising her.  "Jesus!" she says, continuing to rub me.  I blast her again, and again.  It's on her stomach, mainly, but also on her hand, and me....

She kisses me, still gripping my cock.  "Let's take a shower," she says.

So we do.  And I actually feel really good, really happy.  This has been a great date.  ANOTHER one! But I still think this is the same old Kelly.

The question is:  How long do I have before she goes totally psycho?

Friday, July 23, 2004

A peek into Steve's skeleton closet

Plenty of stuff to tell, but something happened yesterday that has been on my mind all night.
I'm driving home from work, and I see some commotion by the side of the road. I slow down to take a look.

There's a little kid, maybe 11 years old, on rollerblades, stopped on a dusty, grassless patch of lawn. And there's a big fat kid twice his size punching him and screaming.

I stop the car.

The kid on the skates is terrified. His face is twisted up into a frightened grimace; his helmet is badly askew, covering his right eye and cheek.

"You OWE it to me!! YOU OWE IT TO ME!! GIVE ME MY MONEY!" The fat kid is yelling.

"I don't have it!" the kid sobs.

"Gimme my money NOW!" shouts the fat kid, who shoves the roller-blade boy with both hands. The boy flails his arms and legs wildly, then falls to the ground, swirling up a plume of light brown dust.

"HEY!" I shout, getting out of the car.

The boys' heads dart around to look at me.

"What are you doing?" I shout at the fat kid. "You could have really hurt him!"

"He promised me he would give me money. Now he WON'T DO IT!" the fat kid says, throwing a wild kick at the boy's head. He connects squarely with the helmet, making a loud THWACK! sound.   The little guy wails.

WTF?! Is this kid nuts?

I grab the fat kid by his shirt. "Are you trying to KILL him? Do you want to see him in a hospital bed with TUBES coming out of his head?!" I scream.

The fat kid starts crying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he says.

The front screen door slams open. A big, hulking fat guy comes jiggling out towards me.

"HEY! [cough, cough] What the FUCK do you think you're doing to my [cough, cough] fucking [cough] son?!"

I guess the guy has asthma. He's at least 6 feet tall, and 350 pounds, easy. But the walk out the door has clearly winded him.  He pulls out an inhaler and takes a few puffs.

"Your son just kicked that little kid in the HEAD. He could have seriously injured him." I'm conversational, not yelling. I can't let this escalate.

"That boy [cough] owes my son [cough] money!"

"So you KNOW about this? And you approve?!" I say, incredulous.

He shrugs. "If he doesn't want to get beat up, he should pay his debts."

"You have GOT to be kidding-" I begin.

"And YOU," he says, pointing at me, catching his wind. "I ought to strangle your rich Jew ass for assaulting my son! You ASSAULTED him! I ought to call the cops!"

"I'm Italian," I say, evenly, staring at him. My face is completely expressionless.

At this point, I can't take the guy seriously at all. I mean, if push came to shove, I could just run around the lawn for 30 seconds, and get him to chase me, and he'd probably die of a heart attack.

"I don't GIVE a fuck! Get the FUCK off my property!" He reaches for my shirt. I swat his hand away, hard. There's a loud SMACK! He rears back and tries to kick me. I step easily aside. He misses me by three feet.

You'd think that, with all this kicking, the family would lose some weight.

"You don't want to fuck with me, asshole," I say. "I know this kid," I continue, gesturing towards the boy. "And if I find out that your son fucked with him again, I'm coming to get YOU. And you're gonna need a hell of a lot more than an inhaler when I'M done with you." I can feel my face carved into a deep snarl.

So much for my poker face.

I help the boy up and back on his feet. The fat guy and his kid go back in the house, without another word.

I get the boy's name, just in case. Of course, I didn't know him from Adam. Maybe I'll check back with him, someday...

I don't like the way I acted there. My anger got the best of me. I usually don't let it happen. I know it was just for a second, really, but the whole thing just awakened a bad memory in me.....

I was 10 years old. I loved books. I especially loved books about planes. My favorite book was one called "Up, Up, and Away," or something like that, which had all kinds of great action shots of planes in it. I memorized every plane in it, and carried the book all around with me.

One day, while riding my bike home from a friend's house, book in one hand, handlebars in the other, two older boys cut me off and made me fall. I cut my knee pretty badly, and I was bleeding.

"Hey! Fatso's bleeding!" one of the boys, Chris, says.

"Cool! Lemme see!" The other boy, Erik, says.

They stand over me, admiring their handiwork. I am crying.

"Stop crying, you baby!! Hey, look! The fat baby's crying!" says Erik.

"Whatcha got there, fatty?" Chris says, snatching my book.

"NO!" I shout.

He opens the book. He starts reading aloud (at about a six-year-old level, incidentally): "THIS-BOOK-BE-LONGS-TO....It's blank!"

"Give it back!" I say.

"You didn't even write your name in it," says Chris. "Why didn't you write your name? Why didn't you write, 'Fatty' in there?  Hey, gimme a pen!"
Erik hands him one.
Chris starts writing, enunciating each letter out loud. "F.......A......."

"NO! NOOOOOOOOO!" I scream. I somehow untangle myself from the bike and throw it down. I grab Chris by the shirt collar. He's at least 6 inches taller than me. Chris breaks free and slams the book to the ground, stomping on it.

I'm running on pure adrenaline now. I bend my hand into a claw and grab a handful of Chris's face. I have no idea exactly what I'm doing, but it works.

"OOOOOWWWWW!" screams Chris. He sounds just like a girl.

I punch Chris with a meaty fist, right in the soft area under his chin. His teeth slam together with a sickening CLACK. He is howling.

I punch him in the stomach. He doubles over. I punch him in the ear. Over the eye. In the chest. He falls down; I punch him in the back.

"I'm gettin outta here," says Erik, who mounts his bike and takes off.

"Ow!A-ha-ha-ha-hawwwww! Stop! Stop it!!!" he cries. 
He staggers to his feet.  I grab him by the shirt and throw him violently to the ground.  He lands directly on one of those little cement squares that stick up out of the concrete, maybe as big as a box of CD's.

Now he is screaming in pain.

I am reaching back to punch him again, when suddenly I feel myself being lifted in the air. It's Mr. Abbate, my neighbor.

He's a kindly old man, maybe 75 or so. I had no idea he could lift a big fat blob like me.

"That's enough," says Mr. Abbate calmly, sounding like the Pepridge Farm bread guy from Maine. "Gowon home now.  You taught him his lesson. Now you get along and go home."

I pick up my book. It's covered in mud, ripped and tattered. He ruined my book! I cry all the way home.

It turns out Chris broke his rib on the cement block.
His mother calls my father to complain, and my father says, "Chris is older than Steve. And bigger. Chris was bullying my son. And you know what? I'm PROUD of Steve. I'm PROUD of him. Now, I spoke to my neighbor, Mr. Abbate, who saw the whole thing, and he knows that Chris, and his friend Erik, provoked Steve. Shall I call the juvenile authorities and speak to them about that?"

A few days later, Chris comes to my door with a new copy of "Up, Up, and Away!", paid for with his newspaper route money.
"I'm sorry I bullied you," says Chris.  "Can we please be friends?"
"Yeah," I say.  He shakes my hand.  He is crying.
I open the book, and inside the cover, where it says, "This book belongs to," Chris had written my name, in neat block letters. I still get a tear in my eye when I think about that.

So I guess it ended well. But some things you just don't forget.
I'll see you guys next week....

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

How to beat static cling

So I've been thinking a lot lately about me and Lila.
I definitely have a soft spot in my heart for her.  I definitely like fucking her.  I am impressed with her work ethic, and her aptitude for the job.  And I like how she is not pressuring me for a commitment.  In fact, I can't believe how laid back she is about it.
Lila is fucking GORGEOUS.  And she is being the coolest girlfriend any guy could ever ask for.  AND she is good in bed.  So I am sitting here, wondering if it is finally time to settle down.
Right away, the phobia kicks in.  I start breathing a little heavier.  I can feel my heart pound.  I'm like a claustrophobic who has just been locked in a closet.

I look around the house.  Everything is neat and organized.  My soup cans have a specific place in the cupboard.  My underwear has a specific place in my dresser.  I wipe the spit off my mirror after I brush my teeth.  I wipe the rim of the toilet bowl after I piss.  The idea that someone might come into my home and change that, even infinitesimally, makes my skin crawl. 
Fuck.  Did I just use a 15-letter word in my blog?
I'm not a morning person.  I have a routine.  I get up.  I piss.  I work out.  I shower.  I eat.  And  slowly, over the course of 2 or 3 hours, I become the jovial, charming lug you know as Steverino.  Before that, you don't want to be near me.
I can't believe I invited Kelly to stay over that night.  Normally, I freak out at the prospect of sharing a bed with a girl overnight.  Not only because she might read into it; also because I just know that, in the morning, as I stomp around the house like I normally do, she will be totally up my ass, asking what I am thinking about, or what's wrong, wondering what she did to piss me off, when in reality it's just me.  At 5:42AM, I do NOT want to explain that shit to anyone.  I don't want to talk at all.
I know what you're saying.  "So, because you are an asshole in the morning, you don't want to be monogamous?!"
It's more than that.  I like being with girls.  A lot.  But I don't like the idea that a girl, any girl, would be a "part of my life," other than on a limited basis.  It's more than sharing my toothpaste.  It's sharing my house, my life.  It's being a part of a "team", as opposed to being solo.  Suddenly, I owe an explanation to someone for every decision I make, every move.  In fact, I have to discuss every decision WITH this other person before WE make it, and if for some reason she disagrees, it's negotiation time. 
I know what's best for me.  I've always made out just fine on my own.  And when I make up my mind about something that affects my life, I do NOT want to fucking discuss that with anyone else.  If that makes me an asshole, so be it.  At least I'm an honest asshole.
Some of you girls can be vindictive.  You know we want sex, and you can brandish it like a weapon.  Block access to your vagina, and some guys will do just about anything you want.  Since I am pretty much hooked on sex like a drug at this point, I am thinking that would be very bad for me.  If I were to settle down, I would be depending on one person never to hold out on me, never to lose interest, and to come through for me every time I need her.  Am I absolutely sure I can count on a 17-year-old chick for that?

That's why I like the idea of being with two girls.  One turns me down; I go see the other.  One starts acting weird; I go find another one.
I know I'm doing a terrible job of explaining this.  But suffice to say, the idea of being with anyone permanently, even Lila, fills me with the sense of impending doom.  I like Lila, and I respect her a great deal.  I want to spend a lot of time with her.  But I also want to go home alone at the end of the day.  

And besides all that, I think Lila is too young to settle down, even if she doesn't realize it.  Let's say she and I get together, and it works out for 5 or 10 years.  I believe she is going to look back with a sense that she missed out on things, because she didn't date enough before getting serious.

With this in mind, I've decided I need to do something about Lila.  I don't want her out of my life completely, but I think she is getting too close, and I need her to take a step backwards.
I could just tell her that.  But oh, what a freaky scene that would be!  She'd lose it for sure, and I'd be explaining endlessly how I want to be with her, but I don't, but I do.  And all the while, she'd be bawling her eyes out, asking me what she did wrong, what I want her to do, what I need from her to make me happy. 
This approach will never work.  If you're gonna dump someone, dump her; if not, don't say anything at all.
But there is another way....... 
Monday night, I leave my phone on.  At 11:30, it rings.  Lila.
"Hey, baby!"  She sounds tired.  "You answered!!"
"Yeah!  How's it going?"
"OK.  I miss you."
"Baby, I need to talk to you."
"Uh-oh.  I don't like the sound of your voice."

I know, I know, mix the truth with the lie, the garlic powder, blah, blah, blah.  Sometimes you gotta bend the rules.
"Lila, Ross knows about us."
"He came up to me today, and said, 'Steve, I'm just gonna ask you straight out:  Are you fucking your secretary?' " I say.
She gasps.  "What did you say?"
"I said 'No.' "
"And what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good.   Because if you did something stupid like that, I'd have to fire you.' "
"Oh.My.God."  She says.  "You could have gotten FIRED!"
"Yeah, I was pretty scared for a minute there."
"So what are we gonna do?"
"Well, I think we have to talk about some things."

"Like what?"
"Well, he wouldn't tell me how he found out.  And I don't think it was anybody at work, because if anybody at work knew, we would have heard rumors."
"Right.  So who do you think it was?"
"I have NO fucking clue, Lila!  So now we have to be REALLY careful.  I mean, I can't just come over there when your mom is not home like I do now.  At least not for awhile."
She is crying softly.
Shit, here we go.
"This sucks," she says.  "Things were going SO good.  I am so PISSED!"
"Baby, I know.  It's cool.  Let's just lay low for awhile, until I get him to tell me who told him."
"How will you do that?"
"I'll wait until the CEO comes down again.  Ross always turns into a scared little girl around him, so he goes out and gets plastered the night before.  I'll just go with him, wait for him to get nice and cocked, and then ask him."
"OK.  Hey," she says.
"Can I still come over for cleaning?"
"I mentioned that.  I said, 'Hey Ross, I hired her to clean my house, so I might be driving her back and forth sometimes.' "
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'I just better not hear about the two of you dining by candlelight at Luigi's.' "


"What a prick," she says.
"Lila?" I say.
"Just do me a favor.  Please don't say anything to Ross about this, ok?  Just act like nothing happened."
"OK," she says.
Good.  That's all I need:  Lila goes charging up to Ross, denying the affair, and Ross asks her WTF she is talking about.

"I just wish I knew who told him," she says.
"We'll find out.  It's gonna be fine.  Don't worry."

Now, I had to tell a lie, and there wasn't too much truth to mix in with it.  But, I can add a little sugar to make the medicine go down easier.
"Hey Lila?"
"Do you think you can get your mom to let you stay at your dad's for the weekend of the 31st?"
"My grounding will be over by then.  Yeah, probably.  WHY?!"  Now she is excited.
"My friend Mike's getting married.  I was wondering if you wanted to be my date for the wedding."
"Um, well ya, but we can only go as friends.  I wouldn't want anyone to suspect us," she says sarcastically.
"But you WILL have sex with me, right?"
"ABSOLUTELY.  I can't fucking WAIT to have sex with you."
I get absolutely rock-hard.  Something about her voice when she talks dirty.  It's a Marilyn Monroe-type of husky whisper. 

"We just have to be EXTRA careful when we go, ok, Lila?  We have to be careful ANYTIME we are together now.  Even more than before."

"I know."

Actually, it is kind of a risk taking Lila, but not THAT much.  Mike and his fiancee live an hour past Lila's dad's house, and he lives about 100 miles south of here.  No one from around this area will be there.  I hope. 

It's gonna be tricky to arrange.  But if we can pull it off, that figures to be a very nice weekend...
All things considered, this went ok, I guess.  She didn't go to pieces.  But I wonder:  Have I seen the last of the aftermath?

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

Calimari for dinner, clam for dessert

It's Friday, July 16th.
Maybe it's the fact that I'm starting to fall for Lila and I'm fighting it.  Maybe it's that Kelly and I talked about our issues and I am feeling better.  Whatever it is, I am extremely horny...and not for Lila...
Work is absolutely insane.  After a lull in which there wasn't much to do, it's crazy again, and I have been working late (and early) to keep up. 
I can't wait for the day to be over so I can see Kelly tonight.  I wonder if she would be willing service me again...of course, I have not done that for her yet, so she may want me to, which would really be no problem. 
12:30.  Phone.  I don't recognize the number.
"This is Steve."
"Hello, Steve.  This is Barbara.  Lila's mom."
Holy shit! 
I look out at Lila's desk.  She is at lunch.  Looks like her mother called when she knew Lila would be away from the switchboard.  Clever...
I've never spoken to Barbara before.  It's amazing how much she sounds like Lila; just a bit more nasal, really...
"Hi, Barbara!  Nice to hear from you!"
It occurs to me that Barbara may be on to us, and could be calling to confront me.  What else could she want? 
"Steve, did you offer Lila a job cleaning your house?  For $75 a week?"
"Yes, I did."
"Ahh, ok.  Well, isn't $75 a little... much?"
Well, maybe, but the blowjobs are free!
"Actually, that's the going rate."
"In whose book?"

"That's what I've paid other people I've hired to clean."

"So was the price her idea, or yours?" she asks.
"I offered; she accepted."

Long silence.  "You're paying her in cash, right?" she asks.
What, would you prefer food stamps?
"Well, you know, to be honest with you Steve, I'm just a little worried about Lila having that much cash on her.  I know she's using again-"
"Using what?"
"I don't mean to involve you in this, but I know she's smoking pot.  And drinking, and smoking cigarettes, not that that's the biggest deal, but..."

Well, at least she's not screwing anyone who's old enough to be her father.....oops, never mind.

"I guess she told you she's been grounded."
"Yeah, she mentioned something about that.  It's none of my business."
"I'm just afraid that she's going to have all that cash, and she's going to go and blow it on pot, or something."
Pot!?  What a waste!  I'd much rather see her blow it on sleazy underthings.  Royal blue, preferably.  But Lila looks good in black, too...
"Well, I mean, she gets paid now for her regular job, and that's a lot more than $75 a week..." I say.
"Yeah, that's true.  It's just that her paycheck goes into her account by direct deposit, so it's not just a pile of cash that's lying around.  And I can read her bank statements to see how much money she's taking out."
OUCH.  Gotta remember that.
"So have you seen anything that concerns you?" I ask.
"Well, she is taking SOME cash out, but not that much.  She seems to be spending a lot on clothes....I see a lot of new clothes around."
Anything from
Victoria's Secret?
"I see."
"I'm kind of torn about this cleaning job.  I mean, she really seems to enjoy working for you.  She LIKES it there!"
Yeah, she likes it in my leather chair, too...and on my washing machine... 
"She really enjoys her work - I can see how happy she is working there.  She's always telling me about some project or something that she's working on.  And when she got promoted - oh my God, she was so happy!"
"Yeah, I know she was..."
"I know you're a good influence on her, Steve, and I appreciate you taking her under your wing.  She really admires you."
I admire her, too.  A 17-year-old, taking it up the ass?  Now THAT'S bravery!
"Thank you!  But you said you were torn?" I ask.
"Yeah.  On the one hand, I think it would be nice for her to help you out, but I just hate the idea of her having all that cash.  It's just more temptation.  I know there's not much you can do about it..."
"Right.  Well, for what it's worth, Barbara, Lila's doing a GREAT job for us.  And she's always prompt, and very alert, and has great attention to detail.  She doesn't strike me as someone who is.....hooked on drugs."
"Yeah.  Well, I guess this is ok, I really just wanted to make sure Lila was telling me the truth about the job offer."
BTW, is there any way you could go out with that boyfriend of yours a little more often?  I like pounding your daughter on your bed... 
"She's absolutely telling the truth, and it would really help me out if she could do it, because my house is pretty messy these days."
Yeah.  Like, earlier this week?  I spilled some tomato sauce, and left it there for, like, 15 seconds before cleaning it up!
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes ma'am."
"So you're not married."
"No.  I was engaged once."
"Yeah, I'm divorced.  It's a great life, huh?"
We laugh.
"OK, Barbara, well, thanks for calling."
"You're welcome."

"And I just want to let you know, I'm really proud of the job Lila has done, and we're all very happy with her here, and we look forward to working with her for a long time."
"You don't know how happy I am to hear that, Steve."
Well!  It looks like I have myself a cleaning lady! 

6:30.  Kelly picks me up.  It's a beautiful night, cool and clear.  I love summer nights like this.  We decide to take advantage of the weather and dine al fresco at Luigi's.
I've been looking forward to this all day long.  It's been an extremely hectic week, and I can't wait to kick back with a nice glass of wine and some Italian food.
I love calimari.  It's my favorite.  You just can't look at it too closely as you eat it.  Or think about what it is (squid).

Kelly is wearing a sundress splashed with big flowers.  Her shiny blonde hair is pulled tightly back into a pony tail.  She looks relaxed and happy.  I have to say, Kelly really knows how to kick back and have a good time.  Yeah, there's been a lot of drama with us so far.  But I hope that's all in the past.

She is really smiley today.

"So tell me something," I say after we order.  "When did you know you wanted to sell houses?"

"OK, do you promise not to laugh?"

"Of course!"

"I was gonna be a vet."

"An animal doctor?!"

"Yeah!  I LOVE animals.  I love HELPING animals.  I got my pre-vet degree, and I just took a year off to pay some bills."

"And never went back?" I ask.

"And never went back.  I got a job selling CARS, of all things...and I was good at it!  But I didn't like it.  So I went and got my real estate license, and I've been doing this ever since."

"So tell me," I say.  "If things go well for a long time, and you are well off financially...."

"Would I ever go back and become a vet?"

"Yeah.  Would you?"

Her eyes wander.  She stares wistfully into space, as if she were focused on a point very far away.  She hasn't thought about this before, I don't think.

"That would be nice," she says.  "So tell me something about YOURself now.  How about your favorite book?"

"The Great Gatsby," I say immediately.

"What's that about," she says.  "Is there a ‘Gatsby’ in it?"

"Of course there is!"

"Who is he?"

"An enigmatic, reclusive playboy," I say.

"Heh," she says, staring down at her wine glass.  "Well that's just perfect, isn't it, Steve?"

"Yeah, I suppose it is."

My calimari was heavenly.  Kelly had the veal parmigiana and she said it was amazing, but she didn't finish...come to think of it, she never finishes her dinners.

I order some Tiramisu for dessert.  I am not particularly hungry, but the Tiramisu is so good that it's sort of an obligation.

"Let me try some," she says.  I take a spoonful and put it in her mouth.  She is staring at me.
That's my cue.  "Check, please!"
We come back to my place.  It occurs to me that I've been to her house only once, twice max.
"I love your home.  It's very warm.  Did you hire an interior decorator?" she asks.
"No.  But I watch Queer Eye.  Does that count?"
"Hahahaha!"  She's been laughing at my jokes all night.
I open a bottle of wine that I've been saving for awhile and pour some for us.  She is sitting on the couch with one leg folded under her.  Her hair is down now, and she is twirling it idly with her left index finger.
"You remember when we drank to 'no more fighting'" I say.
"We didn't stick to it!" she says.
"Let's stick to it this time."
"OK," she says, as if that is the best idea she’s ever heard.  We clink our glasses.
I kiss her.
"MMMMMMMMM," she says, our lips still together. 
We put our wine glasses on the coffee table.  "Can you undo me?" she says, turning around and lifting up two huge handfuls of blonde hair so I can see the buttons on her sundress.  I unbutton her.
She lowers her dress to the floor.  Pink bra and panties. 
"Do you own anything other than pink underwear?" I ask.
"I KNEW that was coming," she smiles.
I unbuckle my belt.  I'm wearing dress slacks with a clip, a button, and a zipper.  Taking them off when you're horny is like solving a damn Rubik's cube.
I don't like getting undressed in front of girls.  Nudity is fine, but I just feel awkward when she's laying there naked, and I'm unbuckling and unhooking things.  Maybe it's time for the
Monkey Man to invent some quickly- removable sex clothes.....
 I'm finally undressed down to my boxers.  "Let's try something new," I say.
"The bed!"
She lays down with her legs hanging over the foot of the bed, looking at me.  Yeah, she wants to get eaten.
I pull her panties down.  She is definitely shaving regularly now.  She might have shaved today, from the looks of things:  she is sporting an astro turf-like cut down there.
I start to lick her.  She lets out a half-moan, half-exhale.
Kelly has a really big clitoris.  As I lick and rub it with my tongue, it gets fuller and harder.
I am reminded of what my 10th grade sex ed teacher said:  "The clitoris is similar to the penis.  Girls actually have a little, tiny penis!"
So, I turned to my friend and said, "Hey Frank!  I didn't know you were a girl!"  I got detention for that, but it was worth it.
She puts her feet on the bed and arches her back upward.  I run my hand along her firm ass cheek and slap it.  Hard.
"No," she says.  "I wanna be made love to tonight."
Ya, it wouldn't be Kelly if she didn't throw a monkey wrench in things somehow.
I kneel on the bed in front of her.  I am fully, desperately hard for her.  She opens her legs to me and I enter her.  Without touching it, of course....
I lower my hips so I am entering her at an upward angle.  I look down and watch as my cock slides in and out of her.  It is wet and glistening.
She pulls me to her and sucks my nipple.  Then she bites it.  Not hard, just enough to get my attention.  If it's possible, I get harder.
I am pumping her faster, more urgently now.  Her firm tits bounce rhythmically with my thrusting.  Her hair is in her face; she blows it out of the way.
"O God-" I say.
The orgasm hits me and I explode. Then another wave, then another, then another...
I lay down over her for a long moment.  We are just staring at each other.  It's intense!
I pull my hips back and slide out of her.  I don't like staying inside a girl when I am jimmied up; when you get soft, condoms don't stay on very well, and how much of a waste would it be to use one, only to have it spill inside her?

All in all, I'd say it was my best date with Kelly ever.  But am I the only one who thinks I am being set up for something?

Monday, July 19, 2004

A Mexican SEXican standoff

As of Thursday the 15th, I still had not heard from Kelly since The Blowjob.
You'll recall that she asked to stay over Friday night, hinting that she was too tired to drive. 

When I think of Kelly, I am reminded of George Orwell's book, 1984.  It's a creepy story in which people are watched, monitored, to make sure they stay in line.  Even their thoughts are patrolled by police.  As you read it, you quickly get the idea that no one can get away with anything.  
That's kind of how I feel about Kelly.  Every time I think I have her licked (er, beaten), she frustrates me somehow.  I can't seem to get away with anything.  Well, not much, anyway... 

As soon as I looked up and saw Kelly at the bar that night, I knew I was fucked.  

Kelly wasn't looking at me at the time.  She was 20 or 30 feet away.  It was noisy and crowded.  It didn't matter.  Kelly was going to find out, somehow, that I was hitting on that waitress, and she did.
But as long as I live, I'll never understand why she does certain things.  Kelly didn't react like a normal girl.  She didn't make a big scene at the bar, or storm out, or leave a nasty message on my machine.  No, she came home with me, sucked my dick like a Kirby vacuum, swallowed a huge load of goo, and THEN confronted me about it. 

It makes absolutely no fucking sense.  But that's Kelly.
The only thing I can think of is that she likes the idea that I was lulled into a false sense of security.  She let me think I had gotten away with it, and THEN she sprang the revelation on me.  Or maybe she just doesn't care that much.

"So are you gonna call that waitress chick," she says, after blowing me.
"It's OK, Kel, I filed for divorce," I say.
She shakes her head.  "You just never fucking quit, do you?"  she says.  "You know, I don't need to stay here after all."  She grabs her shoes and keys and takes off  She always says that I can't take it when she one-ups me.  But when I get her, she hates it too.

Almost a week later, I had not spoken to her, not even once.
I don't like calling Kelly.  I like that she comes to me.  I like that there is no appearance that I am chasing after her.  And I think she likes that she can see me when it's convenient for her, and that she can dictate the terms (what time, what place, etc.)  So, imagine my reluctance to break the stalemate and contact her. 

She is probably pissed at me for disrespecting her like that, so she may want an apology, or at least an acknowledgement that I did something wrong, and I am sure she would like me to call and offer it.
So neither of us wants to call, and both of us are waiting for the other to make a move.  It's a Mexican standoff.  And, since neither of us are getting any from the other while this goes on, it's what I call a SEXican standoff.

I really want to stand on principle, but this is junior high school bullshit.  I'll call if I have to, to break the deadlock.

Thursday evening, the 15th.  I am trying to patch a hole in a baseboard.
Ding, dong!  The front doorbell.
I look at my watch.  It's 9:49.  Only one person comes over this late. 
I walk to the front door.  It's Kelly.  I gotta break her of this habit of dropping in unnanounced.

"Do you own a telephone?" I say. 

"Why do you ask?" she says, smiling.
"You came over without calling."
"Well, I guess you don't own one either, since you haven't called me."
Smart ass.
"We need to talk.  Are you alone?" she says.
"Let's go for a walk," I say, striding out the door and closing it behind me.

Now, I know what she is thinking:  I have a girl in the house.  Otherwise, why would I not have let her in?  This is important, as you will see.

"How many girls are you screwing?" she says.

Nothing like getting right to the point.  I actually like that in a lady.

"Kel, by now, you've gotta know what you're getting with me.  I'm not ready for-"
"I don't want that either!" She says.  "I just want some communication!"  
"I didn't know we had a problem in that area."   

"Evidently, we do," she says in a singsong voice, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head as she looks at me.  She's pissed.  Or worse, disappointed.   She's talking about the waitress.  And she wants ME to bring it up.  No dice, honey.
"What we have now is the best I can offer you," I say.  "The BEST I can offer.  If that's not enough..."

"Steve, all I am asking you for is a little honesty.  I'm just asking you to tell me how many other people you are sleeping with.  I know we're not exclusive and I don't have a problem with it." 

"Come on, Kel.  What happened to, 'I really like you, Steve, and I really want it to work out,'" I say in a mocking tone.

"I DO really like you.  I DO want it to work out.  Otherwise, I wouldn't care at all.  I just want to take it slow right now.  And I'm glad you do, too!" 

I remember how Kelly asked me "where we were going" on Friday.  Is that a question someone asks when they want to "take it slow?"  Maybe, maybe not.  Even if she DOES want a commitment, she doesn't act like it:  She's not clingy, she doesn't call excessively, and she is clearly interested in other people - girls, anyway...
At any rate, I'm pretty sure Kelly won't try to sabotage Lila and I --- IF she finds out about us at all.  Looks like I'll be able to have my cake and eat it too, at least for now.

"What are you going to do with this information, Kelly?  Why do you need to know if I'm with anyone else?"
"Because, Steve, it would make me feel better.  And don't even try to tell me that you aren't fucking SOMEONE, because I know you must be; at least ONE besides me, I bet, and probably more."

I am reminded of the concept of "plausible deniability".  Remember when Ken Lay, CEO of Enron, claimed not to know that the company was knee-deep in phony subsidiaries and myriad other dirty accounting tricks to hide the fact that it was losing billions?  People like me, businesspeople, as well as anyone else with half a brain, just rolled our eyes at such bullshit.  Company executives took it upon themselves to jump through incredibly complicated hoops to hide their losses, and didn't tell the CEO?  And he didn't find out about it himself through the normal course of business?

It's crap.  We all know it's crap.  Common sense tells us this.  But common sense is not cold, hard proof.  And unless there IS cold, hard, proof, and as long as his balls are big enough, Ken Lay can keep on smiling and blithely claiming he "didn't know," and no one can prove otherwise.  Plausible deniability.

Shit.  If Ken Lay can claim he didn't know his company was losing billions, surely I can get away with this.

"NONE, Kel.  I'm not sleeping with ANYONE except you.  I just broke up with someone in May.  And I slept with someone when I was travelling a couple of weeks ago, but it was just a one-shot deal."

Guys, if you have to lie to your girl, make sure it's just a little lie, mixed with a lot of truth.  It's like garlic powder:  Use just a pinch, and it's heavenly; use too much, and it fucks up the whole recipe.  Notice, I told a lie, i.e., that I am not sleeping with anyone else, but I mixed it with two truths:  One, that I broke up with someone in May (it was pre-blog), and two, that I slept with someone while I was travelling.  In otherwords, I've been getting laid lately.  That makes it a lot easier to believe that I am not sleeping with anyone else right now.  Get it?

She narrows her eyes at me.  I look at her unblinkingly.  She is studying my face, looking for any trace of evidence that I am lying.

She's BUYING it!! It's WORKING!

"SO?" I ask.

"So what?"

"So, do you feel better now?"

"So who was this girl you slept with while you were travelling?"

"Total dipshit, Kel.  You wouldn't like her.  Not your type.  Oh, and by the way..."


"How many other guys are YOU sleeping with?"

"None.  I just broke up with Brad [her husband].  There's a guy at the gym I want to fuck, though."

"Good luck with that," I say.

"By the way, she's got a boyfriend, you know.  That waitress?"
"Yeah.  Good to know."
We turn and walk back to the house.  She grabs my arm around the bicep with both hands as we walk.  She always holds me that way.
"I feel better.  Don't you?" she says.
Yeah.  I'm getting this incredible urge to sing "Cumbaya".
"Yeah, Kel."
"Hey, I've been talking to Taylor.  She wants to hang out next week.  Rob is going to be away, so she's gonna be bored."
HOLY SHIT!!!  It's threesome time, baby!  Maybe this time, I can actually do Taylor while Kelly watches.  That would be hot.... 

I get hard.
We walk into the house.  "Hope we gave your chick enough time to get out," Kelly says.
"Yeah, sure.  Go look at the bed.  Not a wrinkle on it!" I say.
"That doesn't prove anything," Kelly says.  "You?  Fuck in a bed?  It'll never happen!"  

Are you starting to see my strategy now?  I don't let Kelly in at first, but we come back to the house, and there is no girl there.  So, next time I don't let her in, she won't be so suspicious.  See?  Now, if I ever actually DO have a girl there, I might be able to get away with it.

It's late, and Kelly has to get up early.  But we make a date for Friday night. 
Kelly takes off for home.  I actually feel good.  Relieved.  And I have to respect her for making the first move, and helping to clear the air between us.  I feel like I know the ground rules for us now.  Until she throws me another curve ball...

And I hate to disappoint you guys, but there was no sex to report on Thursday night.  Tell me:  Is this blog worth reading when I don't get any.......?