Thursday, June 30, 2005

Things not to say to a prospective suitor, 101

Friday, June 17, 2005, 8:30pm
Ming Garden Restaurant / Bar

I've been here before, but just to eat. The bar section is hidden off to the side, behind a pair of French doors, like an unruly child.

"There's ALL kindsa honies in this place!" Troy says through a tight smile, his eyes narrowed confidently. "I hook up all the time here!"

Troy invited Dom, but he declined. Dom's never commented on the Tim incident, but we haven't been out drinking since then, and we haven't spoken much socially.

It's Karaoke night. Or at least I assume it is, based on the chick at the front of the room, shreiking her way through "Fame" by Irene Cara. Her performance would be a little less difficult to watch if she took the pocketbook off her shoulder as she performed her epileptic dance moves.

I've decided I need a fuck buddy. No, I need three or four. I need a bevy of pussies-in-waiting to allow me to get laid at an hour's notice no matter what time it is. I need triple-redundancy, the capability to have sex NOW, even if option one is on her period, and option two is on vacation.

I've never truly had a fuck buddy. I suppose Vicky counts, but I only see her maybe three or four times a year. No, the girls I am with always wind up thinking they are my girlfriend. I never come out and tell them that, but they just assume it in time. They get attached, and I cut and run, and it ends badly. It's always the same story. Obviously, I am not making my point clearly enough with them.

I am going to try something with the next one I meet: I will tell her in no uncertain terms that I don't want a relationship. Sure, I'll lose a few prospects that way. But the ones who stick around won't have any illusions. At least not at the beginning.

My eyes travel from female to female: Too fat. Too old. Already surrounded by three guys. Too drunk. Too skinny. Too much makeup. Rotten teeth. This place sucks.

"Troy, where are all these girls you were talking-"

"What's your drink, Steve? What're you havin'?" He slaps my back with a steely hand, almost knocking me off my stool.

"Vodka tonic."

"You GOT it, boss!"

Two hours pass. Troy is trying hard, but there's really not much to work with. When I see him talking to a spiky-haired chick with a tattoo on her neck, I know it's time to intervene. Has this guy forgotten who he's already fucking?

"C'mere, Troy."

"'Sup, guy? Havin' a good time?"

"This place is dead."

He nods slowly, like a child being scolded. "I'm sorry, Steve. It's usually really good-"

"Don't worry about it, Troy. I appreciate the invite."

He sighs. "I should probably call Ally, anyway."

"How come you're not with her tonight?"

"Girls' night out."


"Ah fuckin' hate tha'. I really wanted to see'er tonight." He's slurring his words badly. No wonder he was hitting on that West-Coast-Chopper-looking chick.

"Oh yeah?"

"She fuckin' fucks me, but she won't fuckin' blow me."

"Thanks for the overshare, bro."

"Nah, ah'm SERIOUS! She fuckin' doesn't want my cock in her mouth!" A couple of heads turn.

"Hey man, keep your voice down."

"Why doesn't she wanna blow me, Steve?"

"You ever eat hot dogs?"


"Do you shove them down your throat whole?"


"Alright then."

He stares off into space as if pondering metaphysics.

"It probably makes her gag. Tell her to lick it like a popsicle."

"Good idea, Steve." He hugs me.

And you guys thought I wasn't getting any action tonight!


Sunday, June 18, 2005

I worked around the house all day yesterday, and didn't even make an attempt to go out. But if I'm really serious about finding fuck buddies, I'd better get cracking.

I didn't call Tim this week, even though I said I would. I did it intentionally.

I'm sure every guy loses his cool around her, even normally suave guys who have it all together. I'm sure THEY all call her when they say they are going to. The way I see it, if 100 guys call her, and one does not, who is she going to remember?

I'm sure she's wise to what I'm doing, and she probably won't call me either. I'll call her next Thursday, but not a minute earlier. In the meantime I need to get some more prospects. But first, some chores.

Top Notch Drycleaner

I'm doing my weekly pick-up and drop-off. There's a long line ahead of me, and only one person behind the counter. The customer is arguing loudly with him about a tie that's ripped.

A girl walks in and gets in line behind me. I glance at her and look away.

Wait a minute. Was she HOT?

I look back at her. Her short brown hair is tucked neatly under a red scarf. She's not wearing any makeup at all, but still manages to look cute, with her deep dimples and straight teeth. She's wearing a baggy T-shirt, so I can't say she's flat-chested, but she's definitely not big on top.

"Hi," I smile, as if she were an old friend.

"Hiyee!" she chirps. I'm getting an airhead vibe all of a sudden.

" was NOT that way when I brought it in here!" the customer is saying.

"Hope you're not in a hurry," I say with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes. "How long have they been arguing?"

"Five minutes, at least. Every time I come in here, it's something else. But they do good work."

"AWESOME work. I was about to throw away an old dress of mine because it had a stain, and just for the heck of it I brought it here, and they got it out!"

"Good deal!"

She glances down at the slacks and blazers draped over my arm. "Gettin' your suits cleaned, hah?"

No, I'm just holding them for the exercise, honey.

"Yep. How 'bout you?"

"I'm actually here to pick up a tablecloth. Believe it or not."

The customer storms out, pushing the door open so hard that it bangs against the outside wall of the store.

"Looks like he lost the argument," I say.

"Yeah," she laughs. "So, where do you work?"

We talk for another five minutes, until it's just about my turn. I'm sure as hell not going to stand around and wait for her while she picks up her tablecloth, so it's now or never.

Suddenly it occurs to me that this is how you do it, THIS is how you build a stable. You talk to every girl you see, not just in bars, but everywhere. You make your own luck. And I did that, without even thinking, and it's working!

"Hey," I say. "You wanna go for a drink Friday night?"

She stares at me. Ah, shit. I guess she's married.

"OK!" she exclaims.

"Ok, cool."

"This'll be fun!" she smiles. "I haven't been on a date in months!"

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Troy, Troy again

Troy is doing better than I expected.

Actually, he's right where I hoped he'd be right now. He's not especially bright, but he's reliable, and very dedicated to his work. He's respectful to Dom and me, and constantly asks us questions and tells us about what he's learned.

I like teaching. It feels good to know that I have enough knowledge to actually help someone new. It feels like I've accomplished something in my own career.

Nonetheless, after several weeks of training, I am more convinced than ever that installing Troy as a DM would be a fucking disaster. He doesn't know nearly enough about the insurance business to run an office, not even a small one. He's too naive to deal with office politics, and we STILL have not seen how he reacts to a crisis.

But Dan Johnson's got it in his mind that his son is going to be a DM, and has somehow convinced himself that he can be trained on how to do the job, the way Dairy Queen employees are trained to make that little loop at the top of their ice cream cones.

It's lunacy. Training a DM from scratch is akin to training someone to be a head football coach with no prior experience: You can teach him how to use the headset, and how to send a play in to the quarterback, but how will he know which play to call? He has to LEARN that, and the only way to learn it is through experience.

Dan normally makes sensible decisions, but this is definitely not one of them. The only possible reason I can think of that he is pushing this so hard is that he wants to retire in a few years, and when he does, I think he wants Troy to take over for him. With some time as a DM under Troy's belt, Dan could go before the board of directors and brag about how his son has been groomed for the job.

Sure, the company would suffer with Troy running a division, but that's not why I oppose it. I don't LOVE my company. If it went belly-up tomorrow, I wouldn't bemoan the loss of a Great Organization Which Had Done So Much For The Community. The company is in the business of making money, plain and simple.

I love my job. I am fond of the people I work with. And of course, I like the money. If the company went out of business, I would mourn the loss of those things, but then I would go find another job and get on with my life.

No, my opposition to hiring Troy as a DM is much more selfish. I was never very keen on the idea of Troy running an office, but now that I am involved, and I've seen what he can and can't do, I'm more opposed to it than ever. He's going to fuck something up royally, and when he does, the problem might very well fall into my lap: "YOU trained him; didn't you cover this topic?" And just like that, my reputation takes a hit.

I'm also concerned that, now that I have taken Troy under my wing, he will believe he's got carte blanche to call me whenever he doesn't know what to do. I've barely got time to do my own job!

Dan is just like me: He loves to hear the words "It can't be done". Hearing that motivates him; it fills him with energy and steely resolve to find an answer. It gets the adrenaline pumping, and it moves the negative, uncreative people out of the way, so the work can be done.

If I were to call Dan and simply say that "Troy's not ready," he would respond with, "How do we GET him ready?" Phrasing it that way makes it seem too simple, and I would get a simple answer. What I need to do is give him the facts, and make him come to the desired conclusion on his own.

Friday, June 17, 2005, 11:00am
Steve's office

Troy has sat in with me for the first several hours of the day, as he always does. Before I turn him loose to his departmental training, I want to assess where we are.

"How's it going, Troy?"

"It's a lot to take in."

"Yes, it is. What's your favorite part so far?"

"Running the sales meetings."

I had a feeling he'd say this. The salespeople complimented him, which means he is just like they are: Smooth, glib, friendly, and very good at bullshitting.

Some years ago, a salesperson told me: "Salespeople aren't selling a product: They are selling attitude, enthusiasm, and confidence." I never forgot that. I think it's true: Really successful salespeople all have a way of acting like they're your best friend 30 seconds after they meet you. Yeah, I can see Troy fitting in with that group.

Troy's comment gives me an idea: I can have him focus on sales during his internship, maybe even go out on some sales calls, get a lot of experience in that area, and show how good he is at it. Then, I can go to Dan and suggest that Troy run the sales end of things for a while before getting promoted. It's not perfect, but at least it would buy time.

"So you like sales, huh?"

"Yeah, it's great. I like Ally better, though," he says with a sneer.

Ally is a case manager for our workers' comp division. She's maybe 24, with olive skin and dark eyes. Every guy in the office lusts after her. I suppose it's only right that Troy is with her, since just about every girl in the office thinks he is gorgeous.

"Bragging is bad form, though," I smile.

Unless, of course, you have an anonymous blog, in which case bragging is very cool.

"Let's go drinkin' tonight!" he says.

Monday, June 27, 2005

I DON'T recommend a singing telegram...

Wednesday, June 15, 2005, 7:22pm
Steve's house

I call Chris.


"Hey bro!"

"Hey, Steve!"

"I just thought I'd call and find out how you're doing."

"I'm good, Steve."

"Did you talk to Janet?"

"It's ok, man."

"Good. Did you talk to her?"

"I just sat her down and told her that, you know, I was really hurting and I really.... missed her, and, you know, I didn't think I could take it much longer."

"Didn't you mention therapy?"

"Yeah. She FREAKED!"

"Freaked how?"

"She just got hysterical crying. She said she knows that I'm hurting, and she feels terrible. She said I have no idea how much it kills her that I'm unhappy, and she sees how unhappy I am, and she knows it's all her fault-"


"-and she says she hates herself and she feels like such a failure as a wife."


"She says she's just bored and sad most of the time and she hardly ever feels happy anymore."

"So what did you say?"

"I told her she was depressed and she needs help, and I asked her if she would let me get her some help."


"She said to give her a little more time, because she wants to try to work it out with just me and her."

"What does THAT mean?"

"She wants to try to get past it without doctors."

"Why? What's the big problem with doctors?"

"I dunno."

"You said she got a physical two months ago, right?"


"Did she freak before that?"

"Nope, she was fine."

"Ahh, so she's not afraid of doctors, just therapists."

"I guess."

"Well, I mean, that's great that she wants to work on it with you, but-"

"I know, I know. I'll keep working on her to go to therapy. She wants to go away this weekend. So we'll see how that goes."

"Let me know."

"I will."

"So what about the whole sex thing?"

"Oh. Well, later that night, she..."

"Had sex with you?"


"Good sex? Or five minutes and 'get the hell off me'?"

"No, it was fine. Blowjob and everything!"

"No shit!"


"That musta felt good."

"It felt shitty. Almost couldn't get it up."

"Really? Guilty, huh?"

"Yeah. I think I have to tell her about Amanda."

Thursday, June 23, 2005

...or, what's behind curtain number three!

Tuesday, June 7, 1:30pm
Steve's office


"Twinkie." It's Chris. His voice is heavy, as if he's just heard bad news.

"What's wrong, man? Don't tell me Janet found out!"

"She didn't. I did it just the way you said. She didn't ask, and I didn't tell."

"So what's wrong?"


"What's everything?"

"I don't know what I'm gonna do anymore, man." His voice is breaking.

"What do you mean?"

"She's such a fucking BITCH. I can't take this shit anymore."

"WHAT shit?"

"She doesn't.... she's not.... she won't............."

"What, she won't have sex with you?"


"Oh shit, man. Hey, where are you?"

"I'm on my lunch break. I'm driving."

"Ahh. So, I mean, how long has it...."

"The last time was Christmas morning."


"Don't fucking rub it in, man."

I'm speechless. I expected to hear a month, maybe two. But this is fucking CRAZY!

"Well, maybe she's got something... wrong down there."

"She had a physical two months ago, no problems."

"Just out of curiosity, when was the last time before Christmas?"

"I started keeping a diary in July. I got it twice in July, once in September and once in October."

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

"I wish I was."

"Have you tried therapy?"

"She won't go. She freaks every time I mention it."

"And when you try to talk to her-"

"She just says she doesn't know what's wrong. She can't explain it, she has no idea why. She says she feels numb."

"Chris, man, I'm sorry."

He sighs. "Me too." There's a long pause.

I never liked Janet very much. I have no problem believing that she'd turn ice cold and padlock her snatch like this.

"I don't know what the hell to do, Steve."

"I'm gonna say something, and don't take this the wrong way."


"Don't keep cheating. It's not you. It's not going to solve anything. I know why you did it, and I would have done it a HELL of a lot faster than you did. But I think you love her, and if you really want to make it work-"

"I DO love her."

"So give her an ultimatum: Therapy or divorce."

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Steve's breakup: The album

Somehow, after endless questions about my breakup from everyone I know, I have totally avoided the subject of my... indiscretions, as well as any discussion of my blog. I'm going with the "We were fighting a lot" explanation, which is quite true. We fought all the time, mostly over trivial things, but those fights were not the reason for the breakup. Of course, the people asking me don't have to know that, however.

Most people don't believe me, anyway. They all know how well Steph and I got along, and they balk at the "We just weren't happy" argument. More than a few have asked accusingly if I've been unfaithful. Oh, and they are all sure to hit me with the "I thought you two were engaged" bit. Inexplicably, one woman I work with thought Steph and I had gotten married!

Sunday, June 5, 2005, 10:00pm
Steve's house

"You WHAT?"

"Paulie, don't break my fucking balls!"

"She was beautiful! She was PERFECT! She was smart, she had a good head on her shoulders..."

"Yeah, she was great."

"So why did you break up with her?"

"I didn't. SHE broke up with ME!"


Well, first I fucked some skank from corporate, then I fucked my sister-in-law's underage sister, then I kissed a sex-starved Jessica Simpson lookalike (and thumbed her tit), then Steph found my blog and dumped me. Girls can be so sensitive!

"Typical bullshit, man."

"What kinda bullshit?"

"You writin' a book?"

"You cheated on her, didn't you?"

Hmm, judgment call time. Does kissing count as cheating? How about tit-grabbing? And what if the tit-grabbing was purely accidental? Does it still count as a feel-up?

"I kissed another girl, but we didn't break up for that."

"You're a moron, Steve."


"You're kidding, Steve!!"

"No, dad, I'm not kidding."

"What happened!?"

"We weren't getting along."

"DON'T gimme that! You were just in Hawaii with her! What do you MEAN, you weren't getting along?"

"Just what I said."

"Did you do something to hurt her?" he menaces.

"No, I-"

"Did you cheat on her?"

"No, dad!"

"If I find out you did something to hurt that nice girl..."

"Dad, remember your blood pressure."

"Goodbye, smart ass."



Other assorted family and friend reactions:

Chris: "What happened?"

Greg: "What happened?"

Bonnie: "You're KIDDING!"

Heidi: "OH. MY. GOD. You're kidding! What happened!?"

Dom: "I wonder what took her so long."

Nancy: "Sorry, Steve."

Chris from accounting: "But you just went on vacation together!"
Yeah, cause we all know about that law banning post-vacation breakups.

Rod from marketing: "Turned down your proposal, huh?"

"What? NO!" I reply.

"So she accepted it?

God's obviously got a problem with me.

Paul [one of our VP's]: "Bitches."

Yeah, Paul's a little bitter.


I wonder what is going to happen with Lila. I still haven't told her yet, and she hasn't called me in a while. This has happened before; she'll go for a week or more without calling, then drunk dial me ten times in 3 days.

I am very angry at her for the way she manipulated me. But of course, I played my share of head games with her, too. She went about it in an immature way, but she only did it because she cares about me. I wonder if she and I will have a future together, after all. Only time will tell.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Note to self: Buy clothespins

May 30, 2005, 8:00am
Steve's office
(Don't panic, I'm not falling behind)

Those of you who work in offices might be shocked at the amount of time it takes to get to your desk and get settled before any work gets done. Someday when you're not too busy, keep a notebook next to you all day, and write down every task you do, and how long each one takes. The wasted time will run into hours.

That's probably why I'm so obsessed with arriving at my office early in the morning. When the clock hits 8:30, I want to be busily at work on some critical project, not pouring coffee or waiting for Outlook to download my 36 new emails.

Today is no different. I climb the nine flights of stairs (elevators are for lazy people), and make the turn down the hallway toward my office. I'm no less than 20 feet from Bonnie's desk when I smell cologne. I get a little closer, and see that Troy is already sitting there, waiting for me.

He smiles brightly and pops out of his chair, rising to his full six-foot height. I extend my hand and he snatches it into his, pumping vigorously. "STEEEEEVE," he shouts, entirely too loudly. It's a primal growl, straight from the throat, the way fraternity brothers greet one another.

"Morning, Troy. Come on in. Let's sit down for a few minutes."

Troy takes a seat in front of my desk. He's wearing a black, pinstriped, crisply-pressed suit, and blindingly shiny wing tips that probably cost $500. His chest is puffed comically outward, like a singing bird; huge biceps bulge from beneath his Egyptian brushed cotton Oxford shirt.

His hair is blowdried straight back, so smooth and seamless that it might be carved out of wood, and as I take note of his angular chin, nose, and cheekbones, I know right away that, whatever problems this guy might have, getting laid is not among them.

Dom and I have discussed Troy's internship thoroughly. Since there is no way to stop it from happening, we are going to make the most of it; Troy will learn all about how this office works, and he will do it by handling as much of our busy work as humanly possible for the next eight weeks.

"Dom and I are looking forward to working with you, Troy. But I want you to remember that this is sort of uncharted territory for us. We've never had a.... boss's son to train before. We've had to design-"

"Steve, can I ask you a favor?"

"What's that?"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't talk about how Dan is my father. I don't want that to be the focus. Whatever I do here, I want to do it on my own."

I am instantly reminded of why we call him "George W". I recall reading an interview with one of Bush's ex-girlfriends from college, in which the girl said that Bush drove around in a old, beat-up car, even though his father could have bought him a new one. It appears that George didn't like the idea of getting handouts from his parents, and wanted to earn everything himself, you see.

But this chick didn't mention the fact that, when she dated him, Bush was attending Yale, possibly the most prestigious university in the world, even though neither his grades nor his performance on the SAT's warranted admission there. His father was a wealthy, influential alumnus, you see, who arranged it for him. Of course, this girlfriend, whoever she was, totally missed the larger irony, as did the magazine carrying the piece: That admission letter from New Haven, Connecticut was a bigger handout than most of us normal folks will ever get in our lives.

Troy's situation is much the same. He eschews association with his dad because he wants to do things himself. Of course, if he really wanted that, he wouldn't have taken this nepotism-laden training assignment, which will leapfrog him ahead of a dozen or so qualified candidates with years of service to the company, any of whom would do a better job than he would.

"Troy, let me give you some advice. That's what you're here for, right, to get advice from me and Dom?"

"Yeah..." He's leaning over in his seat, bouncing his knees up and down, like he wants to get up and run laps around the office.

I look down at his knees. "Too much caffeine?"

The knees stop.

"Troy, don't hide who you are. Don't announce it, but don't go out of your way to avoid it, either. Everyone knows who you are, and if they don't, they're gonna find out quick. If you act like you're just some kid off the street, you're not going to fool anyone. Just ignore it. Don't make it a big deal either way, and no one else will, either."

"I'm not sure I agree with you."

"Trust me."

Dom knocks on my door frame, then walks in and shakes Troy's hand. The smell of cologne is overwhelming now, a sickening mishmosh of competing manly scents.

I wave my hand in front of my nose. "Jesus! We've gotta be careful about all of us being in the same room!"

"Hope nobody lights a match," Dom says, smiling. We laugh.

"Troy, we're going to go over our plan for your training in a minute. But first, I want you to know how important these next two months are going to be for you. If you're really going to run one of our regions, even a small one, a great deal of responsibility is going to be in your hands. This is a great opportunity, but it's just like every other great opportunity: You can either be a hero, or you can fuck things up royally."

He nods.

I gesture towards Dom. "Dom and I, we've been in this business a long time, and we know that there is NO possible way that we can teach you all you need to know in two months. The best we can do is give you the tools you need to figure it out for yourself. It's not going to be easy. It might be impossible."

"I can do it."

"I'm glad you're confident. But if you start to feel like you're in over your head, SAY something. We're here to help you. And if you still don't feel comfortable when you leave here, say something then, too. You're what, 25 years old? There's plenty of time to run an office."


"You're gonna be looked at under a microscope, by everyone, including people who are angry that you got the job before them. Once you become a DM, you better be sure you know exactly what you are doing."

"I will."

Dom and I exchange glances. I'm trying to give this cocky son of a bitch a reality check, and all I'm getting is macho bravado. Obviously, he's been watching too much Top Gun.

"Just remember this, Troy. For the next eight weeks, you work for HIM," I say, pointing to Dom, "and ME. You don't work for your father. You work for US. LISTEN to us, and TRUST us, and you'll be ok. Is that understood?"


There go the knees again.

Monday, June 20, 2005

....and a digital camera wouldn't hurt, either...

Monday, June 6 (continued)

"Amanda, by any chance is there anyone with you?"


"Have you.... have you seen my brother Chris? Lately?"

Another long pause. She's going through the same thought process I did when Janet called me. I never call Amanda, didn't even have her number, in fact. She knows that if I've gone through all the hassle of finding her, and then asked for Chris, I must know that he's with her.

"Hello?" It's Chris's voice. What a relief.

"What the FUCK are you doing, man?!"

"Can we do this later, Steve?"

"NO! Janet's looking for you!"

"Shit! Did you.... what did you tell her? What did you say?"

"I covered for you. You're fine. Don't worry about it. She's looking for her migraine medicine."

"It's, uh, in the over-the-john cabinet, behind the-"

"I'M not calling her back!!"

"My cell phone is dead, Steve! What am I supposed to do, use Amanda's phone? We have caller ID!"

"I suppose Amanda's charger doesn't work with your phone."

His voice gets a little softer. "Can you try your charger on my phone?" I hear him say.

He exhales deeply. "How the hell am I gonna face her, Steve?"

"Did you and Amanda...."

"I'd rather not discuss it."

Holy shit. He fucked her!

"Chris, that's not you. That's not you AT ALL. Did something happen? With Janet?"

"A lot happened. How am I gonna go home? I'm afraid I won't even be able to look her in the eye."

"Is Amanda in the room with you?"

"No, she went to go get the charger."

"Chris, you can do this. Trust me."

"What do I say?"

"First of all, if you're gonna make up a story involving me, it would be nice if you TOLD me about it!"

"I thought about it, but she never calls me when I'm out. And if I told you, I'd have to tell you-"

"Who you were really gonna be with."


"You can trust me. Next time, TELL me."


"Now, you told her you were coming to my house. Right?"



"I told her you were... feeling bad about your breakup and you needed some company."

"Alright. Now, when she called, I had no idea what your story was. And she was asking to speak to you, so I gave her the excuse that you stepped out for five minutes. Where should we say you were going?"

I really hate making up lies. It means everyone involved has to remember complicated details, and one slip-up will expose everything. I'm petrified that Chris is going to forget something. The best way to handle it is to let HIM come up with the story; if it's his idea, he'll remember it better.

"Say I was going to the store to get some Mountain Dew. I always drink that, and you never have soda in your house."

"That is fucking PERFECT, man."

"OK," he says weakly.

"Say you had dinner here, too. What did we have," I ask.

"Lasagna, your favorite. To make you feel better."

Boy, this guy is good. Better than I thought he would be.

"Now listen. Don't volunteer ANYTHING. It's 'Hi, honey, how are you?' Whatever you do, do NOT give her ANY information unless she asks. There's an old expression: 'Words are silver, silence is gold'. You got it?"


"The less you say, the better."

"I GOT it, Steve."

"Do me a favor: Call me when you're leaving. This way, if she calls back, I can tell her you're on the way, and I'll know when you left."

"Bad news. The charger doesn't work."

"Fine, I'll call Janet back and patch you in so you can talk to her. And one more thing, Chris."


"How was she?"

"Fuck you, man."

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Getting some major (Under)wood

sCARRIE hot Posted by Hello

Maybe it's the dreamy, chocolate brown eyes. Or the sexy, cascading blonde hair. Or the way she's wearing her shirt wide open, leaving us Idol-worshippers to dream longingly of what's below the bottom frame of the picture.

Maybe it's the way she belts out a song, managing to sound powerful yet sexy at the same time. Because yes, this girl can SING.

Whatever it is, I am wanting her in a MAJOR way right now.

Friday, June 17, 2005

The case of the missing asshole

My brother Chris is nothing like me.

As long as I can remember, he has been steadfastly monogamous. He's always loved being a one-woman man.

He had a very serious girlfriend in high school, and on the weekends, while other kids their age were drinking and partying, they were out looking at furniture. They were both 16 the first time I heard them discuss marriage, and I thought they were crazy.

Jackie and Chris went to different colleges, and she ended up dumping him in the middle of freshman year. She came home for Christmas a few weeks later, and we started hearing rumors that she was dating some other guy. Chris was devastated for a very long time, and still doesn't like to talk about her.

When he was not with anyone, he was very slow and methodical about growing his relationships. He tended to them carefully, like wounded birds. Sometimes the bird died; sometimes it grew up and became beautiful.

He was always very happy with his girlfriends, and very loyal. But, to be truthful, I've never liked any of them.

It's amazing how similar Chris's girlfriends have all been. They tend to be tall, intelligent, and well-spoken. They also happen to be cold, snotty, emotionally unavailable bitches. He loves stuck-up chicks, and always has.

Janet is no exception. I remember years ago, when I was jogging on a hot summer day, and I had underestimated just how sweltering it was. After a mile, I gave up, and started walking slowly back to my dad's house (where I lived at the time), huffing and puffing to get my wind back, my hands on my head.

Janet pulled up alongside me in her air-conditioned Jetta to say hello. She was on her way to see Chris at my dad's house. "I'd give you a ride," she said, "but you're all sweaty." I never forget shit like that.

She and Chris have been married for almost 10 years. They have always seemed genuinely happy. They still sit ass-to-ass on the couch, and she still dozes off with her head on his shoulder late on a holiday night when we're all at dad's. Thing is, she and I have never truly hit it off. I don't like talking to her; it feels... forced somehow, like neither of us wants to be there.

When the family is together, I can predict almost exactly what she'll talk to me about:

1. How's my job;
2. How's [insert girlfriend's name here]; and,
3. Terribly [nasty/beautiful] weather we're having.

After those topics are exhausted, we stand around, rocking back and forth on our heels, waiting for someone to save our asses from the boredom. Sometimes I try to go outside the box, talking about a great movie I saw, or an old friend I ran into, and she just kind of stares at me, as if to say, "We're not supposed to be talking about THAT!" Even Nancy, my other sister-in-law, who is prone to bitchiness in her own right, comments all the time about how hard Janet is to talk to.

I've only seen Chris and Janet once or twice this year, and the last time was on Easter Sunday. Things seemed different between them. He talked to Amanda all day, as I remember, and Janet didn't appear to notice. Each of them acted as if they had come alone.

Monday, June 6, 2005, 7:00pm
Steve's house

My home phone rings.


"Steve, it's Janet. I need to talk to Chris," she says sharply.

What the hell is she talking about? Chris isn't here! Chris NEVER comes here, except on special occasions. They don't exactly live around the corner from me; in fact, we're not even in the same state.

Chris isn't here! I almost exclaim, and at the very last second I stop myself.

Chris must have told her he was coming here. He MUST have, because I can count on one hand the number of times Janet has called this house. She would never do so randomly.

But I haven't talked to Chris in a week or two, which isn't unusual, so if he told her he was visiting me, he must have been lying. And if he's lying, he must be doing something he doesn't want her to know about. But why didn't he fill me in on his little plot?

".....STEVE!" she shouts. I pull the phone away from my ear for a second so as not to go deaf.

I better be very careful what I say. I have no idea what he told her he was coming over here for. The less information I give her, the better.

"Janet. I'm on the other line long distance. Lemme call you right back." Hopefully, I can hang up with her and get Chris on the phone so we can get our stories straight.

"Steve, I NEED to talk to him. He brought my migraine medicine home from the drug store, and I don't know where he put it, and my head is KILLING me!"

NOW what? I'm gonna have to tell her something. Chris is a real idiot for not telling me what he was doing. He's going to get an earful from me when I get hold of him.

I think of telling her Chris isn't here yet. But I have no idea when he left. Better play it safe.

"He stepped out for five minutes. Did you try his cell?"

"I did. No answer. Where did he go?"

"OK, I'll get him to call you. Migraine medicine, right?"


"I'm on it. I'll have him call you right away."



I dial Chris's cell number.

"Hi, sorry I can't get to the phone right now, but if you'll-"


I plop down on the couch. NOW what the fuck do I do? Janet needs an answer quick, and will get suspicious if she doesn't get one.

Maybe I can call whoever he's with. But who IS he with?

Then it hits me. It's obvious! If he's cheating on his snotty, bitchy wife, it must be with another snotty, bitchy woman. And when I saw them together, their body language seemed to give them away; I swore they were fucking. Maybe I was right after all. I hope I am. It's my only chance.

I call dad.



"Hiya, Steve."

"Dad, I need Amanda's cell phone number."

"Amanda who?"

"Your girlfriend's daughter, dad!"

"Oohhhhh, DAT Amanda."

"Yeah, dad."

"Well, I don't have that. Call Anna, she'll give it to you. Here's the number."

I write it down. "Thanks, dad, talk to you later."

I call Anna. "Hello?"

"Anna, it's Steve. Frank's son."

"Steve, hi!"

"Hi. Listen, by any chance do you have Amanda's cell phone number?"

She hesitates. "Yeeeess..."

Time to make up a little story. "She's helping me get my house appraised, and I was supposed to get some information to her a week ago..."

"Ohh, ok." she gives me the number.

I dial it. Please, please fucking answer!

One ring. Two rings. "Hello?" says a haughty-sounding female voice.


"Yes?" There is concern in her voice.

"It's Steve. Frank's son."

There's a long pause. "Hi, Steve."

"Amanda, by any chance is there anyone with you?"

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

41 bottles of beer pieces of ass on the wall...

Saturday, June 11, 12:30am
Tim's house

We drain our glasses, and we are staring at each other. She looks my face up and down with her big, round, denim-blue eyes. Her skin is creamy and flawless, her teeth a brilliant, sparkling white. Blonde hair tumbles down well past her shoulders, partially covering the "C26" on her t-shirt.

The room falls silent, save for the ticking clock on the wall and the low hum of her refrigerator.

"You were thinking about me all day, weren't you," she whispers. She's a foot and a half away from me, and I can barely hear her. "You were thinking about my lips."

"Um, yeah. Those too."

She chuckles softly, then closes her eyes and opens them, slowly. "You were, weren't you?" she says with a little smile.

"Mm-hmm. Yeah, I was. And you were thinking about me too, weren't you? After I called you?"

"Mmm, I don't remember," she says with a sly smile.

"Uh huh," I say.

She leans in as if to kiss me, then stops. I close my eyes and press my lips to hers. I get even stiffer as our lips meet; I am painfully, agonizingly hard, aching to be inside her.

Her lips are soft and inviting; this is not an urgent kiss, like last time: It's a slow, languid, beautiful kiss, a lovers' kiss.

"Why are we in the kitchen?" Tim says, pulling away from me.

"Good question."

I follow her through the living room and into the bedroom. Glancing quickly around, I can immediately tell that she is either rich, or is getting money from someone who is. There are fancy knick-knacks and expensive furniture everywhere.

She pushes her bedroom door part of the way closed; I have no idea why. She turns and kisses me, more urgently now, and the moist, hot sound of our lips is amplified against the black silence in the room.

"You want me, don't you?"

"Yeah," I breathe.

"What do you want to do to me? Tell me!"

"I wanna fuck your brains out, Tim."


"I want to suck your tits, and then I wanna shove my hard cock into you."

"MMMMMMM!" she says, kissing me again.

"You gonna let me suck your cock first?"

Clothes come off with desperate speed. Her tits are magnificent, full and ripe, with small, tight, dark nipples. I grab one, softly, gently, and feel it's heavy heft in my hand.

Her bellybutton is pierced with a tiny chain; her stomach is flat and smooth.

I sit on her bed, my cock ramrod stiff. She kneels on the floor, staring up at me. She moves in slowly, taking my entire scrotum into her mouth, then releases it gently, and runs her tongue up the bottom of my shaft. She takes the head into her mouth, briefly, coating it with warm spit, then runs her tongue back down the top side, a part of the penis that many women forget.

I feel the pressure build, the heat, the low rumble of pleasure as she wraps her lips around it, bobbing her head silently up and down. I need her pussy so fucking bad that I can't stand it.

I push her gently away and she knows it's time. She lowers her jeans and her little white panties. Her bush is neatly trimmed, a flawless triangle.

My stomach rises and falls as I rummage my pockets for a condom and put it on. My heart races. I stand over her; she's half-laying down, half sitting, her shoulder blades against the headboard.

I feel the intense head rush of penetrating someone new for the very first time as I enter her. Her pussy is tight and smooth, much tighter than I would have expected, with as much as she's been around.

Tim has a very girly, high pitched, Ah! Ah! Ah! moan; it's so incredibly sexy that the first time I hear it, I almost blow my load.

I like this angle very much; I can really get a lot of leverage as I pound away at her. I look down and see my dick going in and out, and it's all I can do to keep from coming.

I pull out of her and tug on her hip so that she flips over. Her ass is every bit as gorgeous as it looks through her jeans; round and plump, like a piece of fruit you want to take a bite out of. I love the way her thin waist gives way to the curves of her hips and butt, and how her labia open to me as she lifts her ass in the air. "Squeeze my tits," she says, and I lean over and grab them as the fucking intensifies.

Then she pulls away and mounts me, her hips sliding front to back, slowly at first, her shapely thighs gripping tightly against my body, her beautiful breasts heaving up and down. She builds up speed, slowly, all the while moaning her Ah-Ah-Ah moan.

Suddenly it occurs to me that the bed is creaking and groaning in time with her thrusts, and she's grabbed my hands, her fingers interlocked with mine, her nails piercing my flesh. I am so dizzy with pleasure I can barely think.

She slows down a bit, and I sit up, our faces almost touching. It's hard fucking this way, but I like it. I want to blow a load on her, but there's no way I can stop long enough to pull out and remove the condom.

I start to come, but instead of a gush, I feel a trickle, and I know right away this is a double orgasm.

I push her down onto the bed and fuck her with long, slow strokes, until the climax overtakes me and I can actually feel the condom filling up, and my body trembling uncontrollably as I come.

We lie there in silence for a long time, staring at each other.

It's no wonder Dom is having such a hard time letting her go.



I must have dozed off. I'm still in Tim's bed; we're both still naked.

I stand up and pull my boxers on.

"Where ya goin'?" she says, in a froggy, middle-of-the-night voice.

"I gotta get up early tomorrow."

She props herself up on her elbow, her blonde hair cascading down over her arm. "Thank you for the champagne, honey. You're so sweet!"


"Call me during the week, ok?"


I leave, knowing that whatever shit I get from Dom will be worth it.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

With apologies to Mr. Perignon

Saturday, June 11, 2005, 12:00am
Steve's house (continued)

"Can you meet me in my house in half an hour?"


"Make sure no one's in the driveway."

I'm glad she called when she did; when I'm whacking off, it's an extremely quick process, and in about 4-5 minutes, she would have been too late. Sure, I can usually come twice in a row, but the first time I fuck a girl, I like to make a big, um, splash. I like to blow a huge load all over a chick's face and have her say something like, "My God! Where do you KEEP all that stuff?" I don't know about the rest of you guys, but my second load is never as big as the first.

Jerking off is all business for me; I ain't looking to romance myself, after all. I know just where to grab, how fast to rub, when to speed up, when to slow down, and when to stop. I'm GOOD at it! It's a shame that masturbation is not an Olympic event, because if it were, I'd have more hardware than Bob Vila.

Now that I know how fuck-ready Tim appears to be, it's time to put away my gun. I gingerly raise my boxers and slowly zip my fly; my cock remains at full attention, stretching my underwear and poking out under my jeans. Forget pitching a tent: I've got a teepee big enough to fit the entire Sioux Nation.

I guess it might seem flattering for a guy to arrive at a girl's house 27 seconds after she calls him for sex. Me, I always take my time. My goal is to make it look like I do this kind of shit every day. I don't run to the car; I walk. I stop at stop signs. And I make sure I'm not out of breath when she answers the door. It matters.

I wouldn't be a very gracious guest, would I, if I didn't bring something. I look briefly at my wine rack, but nothing is cold, and nothing strikes my fancy anyway. I'm not a huge wine fan to begin with, and besides, I've always thought champagne went much better with sex.

There are always two bottles of Moet White Star in my fridge. Guys, you ought to do the same; You never know when you'll need one, and you'll look like a true stud when you have one chilled and ready at a second's notice. I grab a bottle and head out the door.

My mind swirls with memories of what it felt like to have Tim's silky smooth lips against mine. I think of her full-body hugs, with so much genital-to-genital contact that it feels like fucking with clothes on. And yeah, I think about Dom. And Stephanie.

It's easy to feel like I'm betraying a friend, but Tim made her choice, and her choice wasn't Dom. Tim is pretty much the female version of Dom and me, and in a month it'll probably be some other guy, so I might as well get with her while I can. Besides, Dom doesn't look at her as much more than a life support system for a pussy.

I do feel a twinge of sadness, though, as I realize that this is really It for Steph and me. Tonight I am going to have sex with someone else, and what Steph and I had will be truly Over. Just like that, I'll be back to my old ways. I know that I'm never going to have love or companionship with Tim, and I may not have it again for a while.

But what else am I supposed to do? Chase after Steph? Stalk her? She's made up her mind, and I'd better go on living my life, because she's gone on living hers.

Tim lives in an attractive mint green townhouse on a busy street. She's even got a driveway and a one-car garage. I walk slowly up her cobblestone steps and ring the bell.

She answers the door, wearing exactly what she had on before. "Hey, handsome!" she gushes, as if surprised to see me. "You wanta beer? OH! What's that?" she asks, looking at the bottle in my hand.

"I always come prepared."

"Let me see. Ooooo! How did you know I love Moet?!"

"I'm a good guesser."

"Can we open it?"

"No, I thought we'd just read the label together!"

"HA HA," she sneers, giving me a hand towel.

She places two water glasses on the kitchen table. "Sorry, no champagne glasses."

"No problem."

"So I told Dom what you had to say about seeing the workers' comp policy. And he proceeded to talk to me about insurance for an hour and a half!"

"No kidding?"

"I almost went into a coma!"

"That bad, huh?"

"And YOU'RE not very good at taking a hint."

"What do you mean?"

"I kept waiting for you to leave, so I could..."

"So you could call me?"

"Right. I kept talking to Dom so you'd leave, so I could leave!"

"Well, I did leave, it just took a while," I say. I twist the cork; it POPS loudly, releasing a tiny cloud of champagne vapor. I fill the glasses.

Moet goes down extremely smooth. It does have a hint of a bite to it, though, which reminds you that drinking enough of it will get you smashed.

"So what are we drinking to?" she says.


She looks to the front door, then to me, her brow furrowed inquisitively. I shrug. It's the knock of someone angry, or in a big hurry.

She leans past me and looks through the kitchen window at her front porch. "Oh shit! It's Dom!" she whispers.


"Do you think you should... hide or something?"

"Tim. My car's in the driveway."

"Oh yeah."

"Just let him in. By now he knows what's going on anyway."

"Yeah, that's true."

I hear her turn the doorknob and pull the door open. It squeaks faintly. It needs some oil, I think.

I hear Dom's voice, smooth and low-key, just like always: "Here's your ID that I was holding."

"Oh yeah, I totally forgot. Thanks, Dom," she says, with a nervous chuckle.

"Have a good night."

I peek out the window, and he's walking back to his car. Is that IT?

I guess Dom can't be surprised. Tim isn't his girlfriend, so he can't be shocked that she's with someone else. But he must feel betrayed that it was me, and that she and I are together on a night when HE was supposed to be with her. But I'll deal with that later.

She strides slowly back to the kitchen, her license between her thumb and forefinger. She stares at me, open-mouthed.

We burst out laughing. "OH my God! Can you believe what just happened?" she says.


"He just acted totally normal! Like everything was fine!"

"That's Dom."

"I guess he knows I'm not sick now."

"Good thing he's not the monogamous type."

She hands me my glass. "So?"

"To non-monogamy."


Monday, June 13, 2005

Computer broken again?!

Friday, June 10, 2005, 10:30am
Steve's office

I have known a few headhunters (or, as they like to be called, executive search consultants) over the years. Their M.O. is always the same: They try to move qualified candidates from their current jobs to better ones. Their philosophy, and it's not always correct, is that any employee worth recruiting will already be employed, because he will have made it his business to find a good job.

Relationships work very similarly. In my experience, a guy who is already with someone is much more attractive to women than a guy who is not. Girls like a guy who is capable of commitment.

But more than that, guys who are getting some on a regular basis are generally a lot easier to be around than ones who are not. In fact, some guys, especially younger ones, don't need much else besides pussy to survive. So if they are fucking 3 or 4 times a week, they achieve a Zen-like state of Nirvana that Buddha himself would envy.

When we guys are getting laid, the world is beautiful. We get the urge to help stranded motorists and give spare change to panhandlers and tackle household projects we've been ignoring. There's no problem we can't solve, and yes, that confidence is sexy to women. The trick is to keep that going when you are alone.

That's one of the reasons I didn't call Tim during the week. If I asked her out on Tuesday, for example, and it happened to come up in conversation that Steph and I split up just a few days earlier, I might look horny and desperate. Calling as an oh, by the way on Friday would look less so, if done properly.

Sure, she'll probably have plans. If there is a girl that gets asked out constantly, it's Tim. But at least this will let her know I am thinking of her, and will hopefully make her think about me too. Next week, I can call with a little more notice.


Her voice is high and girly, like Lila's. In fact, for a scary moment, I think I dialed the wrong number and got Lila instead of Tim.

"Hey, Tim!"

"Hi. OH! Hi, Steve! I didn't recognize your voice!"

"Has it been that long?"

"Yes! I miss you, sweetie!"

"Me too! So how's the party planning business?" Tim works as an event coordinator for a local supermarket.

"OK. But I started my own company!"

"You did?"

"Yeah! I do all the work planning these parties, and the store gets all the money, so I decided to just start doing it on my own."

"That's awesome, Tim! Hey, did you get a workers' comp policy?"

"Yeah, this lady at the Chamber of Commerce is helping me."

"You should let me take a look at the policy when you get it."

"Oh. Yeah, that's right, you're in the insurance business! I didn't even think to ask you!"

"There's a couple of other things you need to be aware of with a new company. We ought to sit down at some point."

Now is my in. I knew if I talked to her long enough, I'd find one. "Hey! You wanna get a drink tonight?"

She snaps her tongue loudly. "Aww, I'm going out with Dom tonight."

I'm speechless. Dom is still WITH her? She must be an otherworldly fuck. And she must also not care about his mission to have intercourse with every blonde (and fake blonde) within a 1,000 mile radius of his pecker.

"Well, I know it's last minute, so-"

"We're only going to Doc O'Malley's. Stop by and say hello!"

"I'll do that."

I hate being a cock-blocker. I'm filled with frustration when I'm trying to talk to a girl, and some jackass keeps butting in to the conversation, in an attempt to either get her for himself, or at least to prevent me from doing so. Whenever I find myself as the second guy approaching a girl, I bail. Dom didn't mind last time when I talked to her all night, though. Still, I don't think I'll show.

I call Paulie to see if he wants to hang out. It seems his girlfriend's car broke down, so she borrowed his to go out with her girlfriends (coughPUSSYWHIPPED!cough). Then I call my brother Greg; his daughter has a double ear infection and hasn't been sleeping, and he and Nancy are exhausted.

My brother Chris is almost definitely busy tonight, but that's a different story for a different day.


What the hell? I'll run down to Doc's. It might be nice to see what Tim is wearing.

She doesn't disappoint. Dark blue jeans, tight enough so I can see the delicious curves of her thighs, one crossed over the other. A white, short-sleeved babydoll shirt that says "C26" on the front (what, is there a Bingo game going on that no one told me about?), and immaculate plain white sneakers.

"Steeeve!" she says when she sees me, and runs over to give me a kiss. Dom shakes my hand; a bartender walks over and puts a vodka and tonic in front of me. Dom must have ordered it when he saw me walk in. "So how's it go-"

I turn to face them; they've already turned their backs and resumed their conversation.

Tim's not as effusive towards me as she was before. Maybe she's going to make me work for it this time. Or maybe she's pissed at the way I left her when she was all warmed up last time. Whatever it is, I'm not gonna fix it by sitting here, drinking and watching the two of them talk. I'll finish my drink and take off.

Dom walks to the bathroom. Tim turns and grabs my wrist. "So you broke up with your girlfriend, huh?" she smiles.

"Yeah. Didn't I mention that?"

"No," she says, smiling through narrowed eyes. She doesn't believe this act for a minute. She knows that I got dumped (gotta thank Dom for telling her, by the way), and that I am now looking to fuck her brains out on the rebound. And that I didn't tell her about the breakup so she wouldn't figure all this out.

"You ok?" she says, tilting her head down and looking up at me, her cleanly-plucked eyebrows arching skyward. I stare at her lips, coated in red lipstick, so thick that they practically cast a shadow on her chin.

"Fine," I smile.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I think she was totally bad for you."


"You don't strike me as the monogamous type, for one thing. And she seemed a little uptight."

"What about you? Are you the monogamous type?" I smile.

"You don't care. You walked out on me. Right?" she laughs.

"It was complicated. It's not anymore."

"Oh REALLY." She stares at me.

Dom comes back from the rest room, and their conversation picks up again. At about 11:30, I say my goodbyes and leave.

Steve's house

I surf to and find a video of some teenage hottie getting pounded. I whip out my shit and I'm fully erect.

I guess there are worse things in this world than choking the chicken. At least I'll get off. Next week, I'll call Tim again, or find someone else. I'll go out tomorrow night, too.

Buzzzzzzzz, goes my cell phone, sliding across the table with the vibration.

I let go of my rod and grab the phone. "Hello?"

"Steve, it's Tim," she whispers.


"Can you meet me at my house in half an hour?"

Friday, June 10, 2005

"I can feel one of my turns coming on"

Easy song quote today. Actually, they're all easy, once you learn to use Google. (Or, my new favorite, Gizoogle).


Wednesday, June 8, 2005, 5:30am
Steve's house

I'm sitting at my computer, like I always do at this time, and scouring my web traffic report. Specifically, I'm looking for any clue that Stephanie has been back to my blog.

I know her mother's ISP. I look for it.

I watch and wait for her, feeling the empty ache of loneliness, just like I used to sit in my living room window and watch the passing cars, thinking that if I sat there long enough, mom would come back. One of those cars would be hers, and she'd park and get out, smiling, and wave to me with her free hand, carrying a bag of groceries in the other. But in the moments when I was honest with myself, I knew that she'd never come back. And I know that Steph isn't coming back either. So why am I watching?

I heard resignation in her voice. She had given up. I sensed the finality of her goodbye. We are over. The relationship has run its course. Most of them do.

Let's say you are a stable, monogamous person. And let's say you date, oh, 7 people before you meet The One and get married. That means that 87.5% of your relationships didn't work out. And you know what? I'd say that you were above average. So is this really a surprise?

For the record, I don't blame Steph. I don't think she overreacted to my screwups. In fact, I'm surprised she stuck around as long as she did. I tempted fate one too many times, I guess. In retrospect, I was toying with the relationship. I was just begging for a problem, and I got one. But why?

Maybe I was restless. Maybe I felt like she was going to hurt me eventually, so I hurt her first. Maybe I was so insecure that I still craved female attention, like a junkie who's gone off the pipe and is jonesing for a bump. Maybe it was all of the above. But it definitely wasn't an accident. All those ridiculous situations weren't happenstance. I either left the door wide open for them, or went looking for them altogether.

I didn't get it exactly right with Stephanie. I did my share of fucking up. But this is the first time in years that I've had a steady girlfriend. I stayed true, or at least didn't have sex with anyone else. I welcomed her into my house and let her sleep in my bed, both huge rites of passage, at least for me. I told her I loved her.

I wasn't an expert skier the first time I hit the slopes, either. Next time, I'll do even better.

As I sit here thinking, a door closes somewhere inside me, and the pain disappears. Suddenly, I'm ten pounds lighter, and the sun is brighter, and my coffee tastes better.

I was never much of a mourner. Mom died, and after 2 days of handing out tissues to sobbing relatives, I was ready to go back to work. Does that make me a cold-hearted bastard? Or just someone who understands that nothing gets accomplished by sitting around?

Even I know that getting serious immediately after a long-term relationship is bad news. So what am I supposed to do? Sit home and stare wistfully at the swinging pendulum of my grandfather clock, as I whimper softly and ask, "Why me?" That's the kind of shit they do on soap operas. And since my name is not Carrington or Quartermaine, you can forget about it.

For me, sex is like eating: I could stuff myself until I burst on a Monday, and by Wednesday, it won't matter. I'll need to eat again. It's irrelevant how much I ate, or how good it was, two days ago. Wednesday is a new day. It's something I need to do, regardless of whether or not I am in a serious relationship.

It's not IF I'm going to fuck again, it's who. And when. My mind clicks busily away, ticking off female names and weighing pros and cons. I sit back and observe it as it works, like watching the screen of a computer I just rebooted.

I can already feel it, that sense that I am outside my body, watching myself and listening to what I say, like a disinterested third party.

What's going to happen? Will I get out of control? Will I "date" girls, like a normal guy would? Have I BECOME a normal guy? Or will I be worse than ever, bedding an endless string of hotties, demoralizing one after another with wanton apathy? Will I eat sensible portions of nutritious food, or will I stuff my face with popcorn chicken and buttery biscuits, like I've just gotten back from Survivor island?

Have I learned anything over this past year of blogging? Have the past 525,600 minutes and the hundreds of thousands of words I've typed at this very keyboard done anything for me? Anything at all? Am I a better man? We'll find out.

But right now, I know who I'm going to call. I've known for some time.

By this point, you're aware of my modus operandi; cock-tease that I am, I build your curiosity until you can't stand it anymore, then turn my back on you until Monday, leaving you to sweat it out, wondering what happens next. But after your overwhelming show of friendship and support over these past few days, the least I can do is tell you who I'm thinking of. I couldn't possibly leave you hanging, after how kindly you treated me.


Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Mean and lovely

Tuesday, June 7, 2005, 11:30am
Steve's office

"Steve, your future wife is on line two," Bonnie says.

Bonnie doesn't know about the fight. No one does, except for you guys, and that's just the way I want it, because I intend to fix this.

I've been calling Steph nonstop since Saturday night, and I've gotten her voice mail every time. Even if things don't go well, it will be good to hear her voice.

"Hey," I say softly.


"How are you?"

"OK," she says, barely audible.

"I miss you."

"Don't, Steve."

"I can't help it."

"Well listen, I just wanted to call to say goodbye."

"Steph, I want you to look at the website. The whole thing, because I want you to see what you mean to me."

"I thought you said it was anonymous."

"It IS! No one knows who you are. Or who I am. But you'll know when I'm talking about you."

"I don't wanna see it. And I don't want us to talk or see each other."

"Steph, why? When are you going to understand how much I care about you?"

"I DO understand. I KNOW you care about me. But we're just too... dysfunctional."

"We're a normal couple, Steph. Don't do this!"

"We're NOT normal. This is not normal!"

"Just tell me you don't love me anymore, and I'll go. But I don't think you can say it."

"I DO love you. I love you too much, that's the problem. I don't think you understand how it affects me every time you ... spring something on me. I can't be all wrapped up in this relationship all the time! It's going to start affecting my school and my career! I probably shouldn't be in a relationship while I'm in school."

"Steph, we were good for each other. You know that."

"No, we're not. I don't think you're ready for a relationship, I really don't."

"Thanks." I can barely speak. I am hurt, wounded by her criticism. She knows me, probably better than most people, and she's telling me that I'm not ready for a girlfriend. It feels like a door is being slammed in my face; this girl, who I care about so much, is turning her back on me. For eight months, her love and kindness made me really happy, and now she's somehow hateful enough to take it all away.

"I don't mean it as an insult. Some people are just not ready."

"You know what I don't understand? How we could be on the beach, talking marriage and kids, and then you DUMP me two weeks later."

"I thought a lot about that talk we had. I know that if we get really serious, it's just gonna get more.. complicated. And I can't afford that."

"Steph, don't do this."

She exhales audibly. "You're not making this easy." I think I can hear her crying.

"I'm not trying to. It shouldn't BE easy after all this time."

She sniffles. "Please don't call me anymore, ok? I'll call you when I'm ready to be friends again."

"I love you."


"I want that to be the last thing you hear me say, because you're making a big mistake."

"Don't, Steve."

"I love you."


Sunday, June 05, 2005

Houston, we have a problem we're fucked.

Saturday, June 4, 2005, 5:00pm

Here's what happened.

Steph comes down for the weekend. We spend the afternoon together, and eat at Cottonwood Dairy, of "Love in a Phonebooth" fame (parts 1 and 2). I got the fried clam strips, like I always do, and then we come back to my house to watch a couple of DVD's and have a nice, relaxing evening together.

About halfway through "Fargo", I develop severe stomach cramps. I get up and walk to my computer table, about 15 feet away.

"Where you goin'?"

"I have to fart."

"You can fart in front of me. I'm a big girl."

"Obviously, you have no idea what my colon is capable of."

I lift a cheek and give birth to a loud, juicy ass-blast. I carefully sniff the air. "Jeee-sus!" I say, but remain perfectly still. I don't dare get up and walk back to the couch; a fart this nasty is impossible to shake. It will follow you to the ends of the earth, like an orphaned child, blanketing you with its stench, a scarlet letter of stinkitude.

The smell finally dissipates after a few minutes, and I rejoin Steph on the couch. She curls up next to me and we both doze off.

I wake up after midnight and sit down at my computer to check my gmail account. Yeah, Steph is right behind me, but she's gone for the night; she never wakes up before morning.

There's a message in my mailbox from a girl I've never heard from before, who writes, among other things, that she has "been in love with" me since she read "THIS". I hold my mouse over the link; as I guessed, it leads to the infamous "You're So Vain" post.

I'm about halfway through a highly-detailed description of her masturbation technique when cramps grab my midsection like a giant vice. I stagger to the bathroom, wincing in pain, and fling myself onto the toilet just in time. I'm there for at least ten minutes.

When my gut is finally clear of the suspect seafood, I walk slowly back to the family room.

Steph is sitting at my computer table, and on the screen is a blog that I've seen a million times. I've seen it so many times that I don't even really see it anymore. Except for right now.

"HI, MY NAME IS STEVE, AND I AM A SEX ADDICT," it says at the top of the screen. She must have read the e-mail and followed the link.

My heart goes cold, as if stabbed with an icicle. My jaw works silently. NOW what do I do?

I knew this day would come. I've been careful about not letting anyone I know see me working on the blog. I haven't told anyone about it, not even family, not even my best friend. But I knew that eventually, as more and more people read it, someone who knew me was bound to find it, and see through the sometimes thin layer of artificial detail that disguises my work. I knew it, but I wouldn't let myself think about the fallout that would result.

She turns to face me, squinting as if reading a foreign language. "What IS this?"

"Steph, I-"

"Is this on the INTERNET?"

"Steph, let me explain."

"Did you make some kind of sex site?"

I am humiliated. I am embarrassed, defeated. I don't just feel like giving up; I feel like giving up and throwing myself down a flight of unfinished stairs.

"Remember when I went to therapy last year? The doctor wanted me to keep a journal, and then it just kind of-"

"Don't, Steve. Just don't. Just forget it. I can't do this anymore. Every day it's something else. I'm gonna be really busy all summer, and really busy with school next year, and I can't deal with this anymore!"

She stomps up the stairs.

"Where are you going?"


"Steph, it's after midnight! Stay until morning!"

She comes back down the stairs and kisses me gently on the lips. It's a slow, loving kiss, a kiss that makes me think for a moment that everything is ok, that she has forgiven me and that we'd forget all about this tomorrow. "Thank you....for everything," she says, before bounding back up the stairs.

I stand by the bathroom door as she stuffs her overnight bag with deodorant and shampoo. It's a black, flat-bottomed bag, like guys carry to the gym. It says "VOIT" on the side. Seeing that bag on a Friday night was comforting; it made me realize that I was going to have a fun weekend with someone I really cared about. Now the sight of it tears me apart, because I'll probably never see it again.

"Steph, let's talk about this. We can get through it. It's not as bad as you think it is. The site is all anonymous. I'll take it down."

"Steve, this is never gonna work, you and me. You know I'm right. Right?"

"No, I don't."

"Bye," she says, and the Voit bag goes out my door.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

Porn girls named Lila [caution: HARDCORE]

The links below will take you to explicit, hardcore porn vids - so don't click if they will get you into trouble!

I swear I've never met either of these "Lila's"... but I would like to.......

Mr. Chews


Oh, and by the way....

Friday, June 03, 2005

What, no Evian cum-rinse?

Wednesday, May 18, 2005
On the balcony

"I never get tired of this view," Steph says.

I walk up behind her without a word, pressing my naked body against the softness of her bathrobe. I grab a handful of tericloth and lift, exposing her flawless ass.

Probably not a good idea to be au natural on the balcony, I think, but I run my cock across her butt cheeks just the same, left to right across them, up, along her ass-crack, in between her legs and back out again.

I reach around to the front of her robe and pull it untied, sliding my hand down, over her pussy. Slowly.

I press my cock between her legs again, far enough that I can actually feel the head from the front.

My hands wander to her breasts, cupping them gently, and my lips brush wetly against her neck. Now I am between her legs again; I take the head in my hand and press it up against her labia. She's already dried off from the shower, but her pussy is slick and juicy.

I pull her robe down; now we are both naked as the day we were born. The balconies here are fairly private, but we're not invisible, either.

I sit down in a lounge chair, pulling her into my lap. "Wait," she says.

She stands up and turns to face me, swinging a leg across my body and sitting gently back down. We grind our hips together in rhythm, but there is no penetration. Yet.

She drapes a hand over my shoulder and begins to thrust more urgently, her tits bouncing subtlely each time she pulls her hips back.

Our breathing becomes louder, more intense. I look up at her; she is staring at me, her mouth hanging open just a little.

The grinding gets harder. Her bare feet are planted on the floor, her toes splayed; the chair creaks and groans under our movement.

She lifts her hips just slightly, and thrusts again, and I am inside her. Now the other hand is draped around me, and I watch mutely as her pussy swallows my cock, then slowly releases it again, her half-wet hair wagging forward and back across her shoulders.

I reach around and grab her ass with both hands, sinking my fingers into her soft globes of flesh, pulling them apart, then back together. Her legs straighten as she rides me, so that she's almost standing upright.

She is close to coming now, and I close my eyes, focusing only on the smack, smack, smack of her thighs hitting mine.

"mmmMMMMMM!" she moans, biting her lip. She's trying to keep it quiet.

I lick her nipple gently, then take it into my mouth. There is something about having a tit in my mouth that drives me absolutely wild. I grab her butt harder as the orgasm takes hold, and I blast her insides with cum. I love the wet, gooey feeling of fucking after I've blown a load.


Saturday, May 21, 2005
Kahului Airport

I'm filled with dread as I return the car and approach the terminal, suitcase handle in hand. This quiet, relaxing, idyllic, picturesque vacation is coming to an end. I'll step onto an airplane in Paradise, and by the time I step off again, I'll be in a Purgatory of ringing phones, nasty e-mails, screaming employees, and gloomy, overcast weather. But such is life. I am thankful to have had such a great trip. I need to call Dan Johnson and thank him.

"Will you come stay with me for a couple of days while I start my internship?" Steph says on the plane before nodding off to sleep.

"OK, but I'm gonna have to work while I'm there."

Next: I hire Vanilla Ice.

Thursday, June 02, 2005

One bribe, coming up!

Tuesday, May 17, 6:50pm
Walking on the beach

I look out over the ocean. The waves melt into the horizon, which seems to go on forever, a beautiful, smooth, panoramic line where water meets sky.

I've seen the ocean lots of times. But where I'm from, the view is always interrupted by massive, tackily painted, 40-foot-high gas tanks or rusty building equipment. Looking at the Pacific Ocean on the beach in Maui is very different.

You get a sense of exactly how small you are here, a sense of the way the entire island is dwarfed by the ocean, how easily the sea could rise up and swallow us all.

"Let's stop here." We spread out our blanket and sit down to watch the twilight give way to darkness.

Steph pulls her knees against her chest, pushing up a little mound of sand with her heels. She grabs my arm and leans her head silently against my shoulder, and we stare at the vast, enormous sky as it burns with orange and purple.

"You DO realize that everyone we know thinks we're getting engaged out here," I say.

She rolls her eyes. "My mother won't shut up about it. And Meg kept telling me to work out with dumbbells so I could lift my ring hand," she laughs. "I told them, we're sensible people, we're not getting engaged after eight months."

"Right. So what IS long enough, in your opinion?"

"It's different for everyone, but if the guy is under 30, I don't think it can be less than two years. And if he's over 30, it can't be less than a year. And I think you have to have at least one major fight, and you have to be apart for a while, just to make sure that the relationship can take the strain."

"Well it sounds like we've got all that covered. Except for the one-year part."

"Yeah, we're gonna be apart all summer. And we fight all the time. But they're usually over silly things."

The sun blazes brightly as it touches the horizon, bathing the sky around it in bright orange. It sinks down, as if extinguishing itself slowly in the ocean, dissipating its intense heat a bit at a time. I'm surprised at how fast it's setting.

"How long do YOU think a couple should be together? Before getting engaged?"

"At least a year. You have to go through one set of holidays together, and I think living together is a good idea. And I think you have to agree on kids, too."

"I don't think it's good to live together. I like that we live apart, so we have to work hard to see each other. We have to make it a priority."

"You're gonna live together eventually, so you might as well try it beforehand."

"I guess. So, how many kids do you want?" she smiles, twirling her hair.

There's just a sliver of sun left. It burns weakly, like a fire that's most of the way out; the sky has cooled to a pale blue. Minutes pass, and the last of the sliver sinks away.

"I think two is a good number. I chase one, you chase the other."

"I'm not sure about kids. At least not until I'm a little older."


"I'm so driven with my career. And so are you. Are we really gonna wanna be getting up for 2am feedings? Either of us?"

"Eventually? Yeah."

"I guess, but we might have to negotiate that two number. IF we wind up together."


"So, DO you think we'll wind up together?"

"Yeah, I do. You?"

"I hope so."


Wednesday, May 18, 2005, 5:00am
Atop Mt. Haleakala

It's 40 degrees, but after what we've grown accustomed to, it feels like we're on the North Pole. Fifteen people stand around next to rented bikes, waiting for the sunrise like eager children.

The sky is a deep, infinite black, gleaming with a million stars, stars which, free from the brightness of man-made light, seem to form clusters and nebulae, as if we were in outer space.

After endless waiting, the bright orange sun pops up above a line of clouds, and I'm amazed at how similar it looks to the sunset we saw just hours ago.

At first the sun looks small, and it seems there's no way it can fill the entire sky with its meager light. But it builds strength with the same slow determination with which it put itself out last night, and then, inexorably, it's daytime.

We ride drum-brake-outfitted bicycles down the outside of the volcano, peeling off layers of clothing as we get ever closer to the warm weather at sea level. The views on the way are extraordinary; at times we seem to see forever, as we look out over miles of trees, hills, and of course, the endless sea.

Waking up at 3:30am was very difficult, especially since we had just gotten used to the time change - but I would do it again in a minute.

Steve and Steph's hotel suite shower

What is it about the shadowy light, the slick soapiness, and the dripping water that makes the female body so sexy in the shower? Why do I get so incredibly hard when I run a soapy washcloth over her hard nipples and watch water drip off her chin? Exactly what about wet hair plastered against her body makes me want so eagerly to do her?

I'm not going to try to fuck her in the shower; I'm thinking of going at it on our bed, our luxurious, huge, soft, bed, adorned all around by fancy knick-knacks and pictures of maritime scenes.

Steph puts on a fluffy robe and leaves the bathroom, her hair still wet. "Where ya goin'?" I ask.

"Balcony," she smiles.

"Be right there," I say.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

I guess a Lindt chocolate mud bath is too much to ask for...

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

"Hey, sleepyhead! Hey! Wake up! Wake UP!!!"

My head is pounding, as if I were hung over. I sit slowly up in bed and look around the room. It's like I'm in a palace, with all the fancy accoutrements. There's color all around me; throw pillows and flowers and wallpaper and paint. It's even more impressive in the daylight.

"Look out our balcony! LOOK!!" she shreiks, smiling like a little girl on Christmas morning.

I follow her to the balcony, and I am moved to speechlessness by the breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. It's a deep, dark blue, almost purple, and white-capped waves gently caress the beach while palm trees sway lazily in the morning breeze against a sky of flawless azure.

"Holy crap," I finally manage.

"Is this not gorgeous?" she asks.

"We've definitely gotta come back here for our-"

"For our WHAT?"


She smiles knowingly at me, but drops the subject.

"Let's go do yoga by the beach! It starts at 6!"

"Um, I'm not a girl, so no."


"Sorry. I'll go work out while you do your wounded cranes, or whatever they call them."

"Steve, do you realize how much stuff there is to DO here?" she chirps.

"Tell me."

"We can reserve a private cabana by the pool. It's like a little tent to keep the sun out. And they bring you complimentary fruit and water. And towels. COLD towels!"

"COLD towels?"

"Yeah! And then they come around and give you little water spritzes to keep you cool."

"Yeah, but is it with Perrier?" I say, sarcastically.

"No. Evian!"

"You're KIDDING!"

"I'm not kidding! They spritz you with EVIAN!! Steve, this place is INCREDIBLE!"

"Steph, I have never seen you so giddy."

"Oh, and guess what? We can get his and hers massages by the ocean."

"THAT sounds nice."

"We totally deserve it, Steve. We both have worked SO hard. This is gonna be the best vacation ever."

"I'm glad you're enjoying it. Even though we haven't really started yet."

"I don't mean to be repetitive, but thank you again," she smiles.

"Just have fun, that's all you have to do to thank me."

"OK. OH! I almost forgot! There's a buffet down the hall! It's free!"


"Yes! They have breakfast, lunch and dinner. It's open all day. You just go in and pick out whatever you want. It's like a little restaurant!"


"It's for our floor only. They open in 10 minutes, but WE have yoga!

"See you in an hour, Steph. If you need me, I'll be by the omelette station."

"Pleeeeeeease?" she pouts. "Please please please, for me?"

"I'm gonna need to be bribed."

"You just wait."



The Road to Hana is a 53 mile-long meandering stretch of road filled with lush vegetation, waterfalls, and scenic vistas, ending at the tiny Hawaiian hamlet for which it is named. Like many things in life, half the fun of the Road to Hana is the journey. Actually, in this case, it's more like 90%. Hana itself is so low-key that it makes Mayberry look like Beverly Hills.

Between the winding roads and the sightseeing stops, the 53-mile trip takes hours. But from everything I've heard, it's worth it. Steph and I decide to go today.

There's a knock at our door. A man is there, grinning happily. "Have a great time on the Road to Hana! I brought you some blankets in case you want to have a picnic lunch! I've also got some cold water and a few snacks."

I look at Steph. "How did he-"

"Called downstairs while you were in the shower. Yoga boy."

"You're really gonna milk that, aren't you?"

"No, you were actually very good!" She says.

I better give this guy a tip. I grab a few dollars off the dresser. "I-"

"Enjoy your day! We'll see you when you get back!" he says, then scurries out the door like a scared cat.

What, are these guys afraid of money?

We got a CD to play during the trip to Hana; it features a tour guide describing where all the best attractions are along the way, even pointing out small details like the most ideal picnicking spots.


We've been driving for about 30 miles. The tour guide directs us to pull over to the side of the road near some huge, leafy plants. We get out, and it's like I've stepped into an African rainforest.

It's 15 or 20 degrees cooler than at the hotel. I can actually smell the plants, heavy and wet, the way it smells after a big thunderstorm. A 20-foot high waterfall gushes behind us, so loudly that I actually have to lean in to Steph to hear her.

I take a good look around. There are trees everywhere, a thick, dense sea of vibrant green as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the narrow road that wanders through them. It feels odd, almost scary, to be so close to unspoiled nature, with no telephone poles, no cell phone reception, no fenced-in plot of land with a bunch of sawed-off tree stumps and a "COMING SOON" sign in front of it. It's like we've been transported to a different planet, our Evian bottles and Snackwell cookies looking weird and out of place, silently reminding us of the civilization whence we came.

My favorite attractions are the Rainbow Eucalyptus trees. Through some freak accident of evolution, they glow with bright, luminescent pastel colors as the bark peels away. Yet another item to add to the list of things that I'll never see when I get back home.


"I know we're supposed to go to fancy restaurants while we're here," Steph says. "But you know what I feel like?"





"Mmmm....Dunkin' Donuts!?"


"Steph! Hurry up, before I have to start on the E's!"

"The Hard Rock! It's in downtown Lahaina!"

"Awesome, Steph!"

"So you're not disappointed?"


The Maui Hard Rock Cafe is a beautiful place to eat. It doesn't feel like part of a restaurant chain. Unlike many eateries in the mainland, you're not shoehorned in with the other diners, bumping elbows with the guy in the booth behind you when you get up to use the restroom. It's big, open and spacious, with that hint of a refreshing breeze that I've already taken quite a liking to.


"Come on!" I say. "Let's go watch the sunset!"


Tomorrow: Fucking up my body clock. Again.