Tuesday, November 23, 2004


Inspiration has struck in the form of two new Steverino t-shirt slogans: "Steve's next victim" and "I'm not a sex addict (but I'm working on it)". Tell me what you think!


I am not sure I trust her anymore.

She blows me. She wants me. She's thrilled with me. She leaves me a sappy greeting card. She wants Paul. She wants me.

Yeah, she made a compelling defense for herself. She explained her actions in the best possible light. She smiled. She made eye contact. She didn't stutter. She made sense. She convinced me. She did everything an innocent person would do.

If I were a member of a jury, I would have voted the way she wanted me to. It's no accident this girl is going to be a lawyer.

It's taken me a while to realize why this doesn't feel quite right for me anymore. When all the conditions are perfect, my sense of commitment to a girl grows slowly, grudgingly gaining strength like a 90-year-old with pneumonia. Any setback, any complication is deadly.

We hit a bump in the road. Something happened. Do I still like her? Yeah. Will I still have sex with her? HELL yeah. But does she have any long-term potential? A little, but not as much as before. Now I have slipped into self-preservation mode.

I told her how I felt once. I gave her some corny-ass line, and I felt like a tool for days (thanks for all the encouragement, by the way). I don't like breaking the facade and showing any kind of weakness. My gut told me that it was a bad move, and it was, even though she came back. Do I really believe that saying "Don't leave me" made the difference?

So now I don't return as many phone calls as I used to. I don't go out of my way to IM her like I used to. A date is a big deal. And I made sure we agreed that we weren't exclusive.

"Not Exclusive". There aren't too many words in the English language that get me hard by their utterance alone, but these two are close. They open up such possibilities!

Let's face it: "Not exclusive" actually means, "Let's see who can fuck the most." You get to see someone you like, as well as anyone else you want. You don't have to sneak around. You don't have to explain. It's a perfect situation. But like most perfect situations, it doesn't last. The girl always ends up dumping me in a fit of jealous screaming. Because, as you may have guessed, I am usually the one who fucks the most.

Monday, November 15. My phone rings. It's Stephanie.

"This is Steve."



"Are you ok? You sound stressed."

"I'm ok," I say.

"I got my ass kicked in class today."

"You got your ASS kicked?"

"I was 5 minutes late for class because of a financial aid problem. The professor made me present three cases in a row. And he badgered the HELL outta me too. I am SO stressed."

"So YOU'RE stressed," I say.


Stephanie is an expert hint dropper. She rarely asks if she can come over, or if I want to go out somewhere. She's like a seasoned fisherman, baiting her hook expertly, dangling that plump, slimy worm in front of my nose, the kind that no decent, self-respecting fish could possibly resist, even knowing the consequences as I do.

I shouldn't invite her. Today is Monday. It's not a "date" night. Fridays are date nights. Saturdays too. Thursday, you're pushing it. But MONDAY? Monday is a football-watching night, or a checkbook-balancing night, or a ceramic-tile-scrubbing night. It's not a night you take some young hottie out to Owen O'Leary's, get her good and lathered, and then try to get her panties off. Monday is a night that guys go out furniture shopping with their live-in girlfriends.

"You've been busy. I haven't seen you in a while," she says. She knows I am debating.

I can't decide what to do. So I just say the first thing that comes to mind. "So you're thinking hot tub, then," I say.

"Really? Ohhhh, you are so sweet," she says.

Something tells me that hook is gonna hurt.