Friday, December 24, 2004

I wonder if she comes with sprinkles...

The more I think about Stephanie wanting to fuck my brother Chris, the more I am ok with it. Chris looks a lot like me, except taller and darker. If she's attracted to me, of course she is going to be attracted to him.

I am sure she was talking about Chris, too. I remember the two of them sitting on the couch on Thanksgiving, chatting away. When Chris starts talking with his hands, it means he's really into the conversation, and I could see his gestures all the way from across the room. Oh, and I saw him checking out her black-skirted booty when she got up to come to the dinner table.

So she likes him, and he likes her. Am I jealous? Am I worried that she's slipping off to his house, nailing him in between study sessions? Am I sorry I brought up the topic of who she wants to have sex with?

No, no, and no.

I trust her, just like she trusts me. Maybe I am a complete idiot, but I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that Steph would not do that to me. What's more, I have even less doubt that Chris would cheat on his wife. Chris is one of the most straitlaiced people I know. He won't even cheat at solitaire.

I am happy that Steph and I had that talk. We took on a pretty thorny topic - having sex with other people - and we were totally open and honest with each other. It's liberating knowing that I can tell her anything and that she can do the same with me.

Wait a minute. Is your perverted pal Stevo actually involved in something vaguely resembling a healthy relationship?


Friday, December 17.

I love Angelo's Restaurant. Or, I should say, "restaurants", because they just opened another one down the street from my house. The first one is right near my office, and I eat there whenever I can. The pizza is enough to give you a stiffy.

You can tell how good a restaurant is by checking out the weight of the clientele. If the career fatso's with the tractor-trailer asses are squeezing their walrus bellies into the booths, eat there. These people are going to die young, but they know where the good food is. There are always gravitationally-challenged people at Angelo's.

It's about 7:00, and Steph and I decide to hit the new Angelo's by my house. Mario, who I know from the original location, greets me warmly and shows us to a nice table. He pulls out Steph's chair, and looks her slowly up and down as she sits. His face goes all dark and dreamy, like he wants to fuck her right there on the table.

He looks back up at me. I smile slyly and give him a little nod. He smiles back. We just had a whole conversation without saying a word:

Steve: Hot, isn't she?

Mario: Yeah, I wouldn't mind doing her!

Steve: But you never will, you greasy guinea bastard!

"Marissa will be with you in just a minute," Mario says.

Marissa comes over, and right away I want to fuck her brains out.

She's 5'2", and definitely Italian: Olive skin, black hair and deep brown eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she's wearing black jeans and a matching shirt.

We order wine, and she turns around to leave. Her ass is dreamy; round and juicy and smooth under her tight pants. Above the waistline of her jeans and below her shirt, I can see a small patch of skin on her lower back.

I think about that patch, that sliver of flesh, all night. How that one little sliver that is out in the open, for everyone to see, is so close to something so heavenly. That sliver makes me think about seeing her naked, about pounding the hell out of her from behind, while her bubble ass jiggles as our bodies slap together.

There's a right way and a wrong way to check out a waitress's ass when you're on a date, guys. It's pretty much at or close to eye level, so you just have to shift your gaze to wherever she is as she's walking away.

The key is distraction. Lift your water glass to your mouth and slurp ice. Loudly swish your drink with your straw. Cough. Get her to focus her attention elsewhere.

Personally, I just get this disinterested look on my face, then glance over at the chick's rump roast, then look away. It's also good to focus on two or three other people besides the chick, so it looks like you aren't fixated on the girl that you are actually fixated on.

Steph is digging through her purse for something as Marissa walks off, so I take a nice, long gander at her gluteus. I've got the disinterested look and everything. You see? There's never a need to get caught looking at girl's asses.

"Were you looking at her ass?"


"I may have scanned it briefly as I took in the overall ambience of the establishment," I say, helpfully.

She laughs. "You would've made an awesome lawyer, Steve." I've heard that before, too.

I could fuck Marissa. I know I could. It wouldn't even be hard. It would be simple.

She's just a kid, maybe 19 or 20. I find it easy to flatter girls that age. And they tend to like aggressiveness, too.

I could do this right now, while I am on a date. I've done it before.

I could get up and walk to the back of the restaurant, towards the men's room, and then, when I was safely out of sight, I would turn back towards the server station and walk at just the right pace so that I arrive there at the same time she does.

She'd have her head down, entering an order into the computer or putting away menus. I would touch her elbow or her tricep - somewhere on her arm, for sure - and she'd look up at me, a little startled.

Hey! How's it goin', I'd say, as if she were my next-door neighbor, or a friend from junior high.

Hi, she would say back, with a sidelong look, gazing at me suspiciously.

And I'd ask her if she's been working here for quite a while, or if it's always this busy on a [insert day here].

Hopefully, she'd give me an in, something that would remind me of a story, or a joke, something that would stick with her. Maybe she'd mention her other job, or how her car broke down and she's been bumming rides all week, or her crazy day at school.

I'd better get back, I'd say, motioning to the table. I'd love to take you out sometime.

A lot of times they say no. This one wouldn't. She'd blush, or stammer, or ask what about your girlfriend? And I'd clarify that she isn't my girlfriend, shaking my head dismissively, even though she is.

She'd write her number on the corner of a napkin or a grill slip. This one is a "Marissa", but she could just as easily be a "Shannon" or a "Tyler" or a "Dakota". She'd probably draw a little smiley face next to her name. I'd look at it and muse that oh yeah, I didn't even get your name before, did I? And she'd remember that. But it was all part of the plan. I love not asking girls their names. What can I say? I'm a Last Tango fan.

The whole transaction would take three minutes. Surgical and precise. I'd take a leak, and head back to the table, and my date would never know. It would be easy; totally, completely, effortless. Just like taking a dictionary from George Bush.

Then I remember what I said about The Habit.

When I was in high school, sometimes I'd get home and find a fresh, unopened half-gallon of Cookies n' Cream in the freezer. I'd grab an ogre-sized spoon, sit down, and eat it all. The entire fucking thing in one sitting. Now, I resist the temptation, and I have been for so long that I hardly notice the craving anymore.

Today, Marissa is the ice cream. And you know what? I'm going to resist her, too. Her, and her cheerleader-style ponytail, and her sliver of back-flesh, and her straight, immaculate teeth, and her rideable ass.

"You ok?" Steph says. "You look very...pensive."

Oh, it's ok. Just thinking about boinking the waitress.

"I was trying to think of something to drink to," I say.

She holds up her glass. "Merry Christmas," she says, smiling.

"Merry Christmas."

....and a merry Christmas to all of you, too.