To lick or not to lick

Friday, June 24, 2005 11:00pm
Tim's house

We've somehow wound up in Tim's kitchen again. There's a painting of a rose-filled vase on the wall; the color scheme matches her decor exactly. On the far wall, there's a window-sized opening overlooking her living room; through it, I see a huge, wood-framed mirror and an expensive-looking couch.

"Do you ever go without a condom?"

"No. Why?"

"Just curious. It's funny. Most guys don't want to use one, but I noticed you didn't even ask."

"Right. I use 'em 100% of the time."

"Why?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"I'm on the pill."

"There are other reasons to wear a condom."

"I know."

"It's no coincidence that I've never caught anything."

"NEVER?"

"Never."

"How many women have you been with?"

"A lot."

She smiles. "I KNEW you're weren't gonna tell me."

11:30.

We're sitting in front of the TV, drinking Margaritas. Tim has managed to find a Melrose Place rerun. Heather Locklear is making out with some dude, from whom she will no doubt be extorting cash, or firing, in the next scene.

"Did you ever notice how when people kiss on TV, their lips are never lined up right? Look! It looks like he's kissing her upper lip!" she says, jabbing at finger at the screen.

"Well, it's Heather Locklear, so I guess he's not holding out for someone hotter."

"Has anyone ever told you you are a very good kisser?" she smiles, turning to face me.

"Yeah. I hit the lips every time!"

"You ARE!"

I feel my cock go stiff. Her voice is sexy, slightly husky and soft. And my stomach is going so crazy that putting those Margaritas in the blender was totally unncessary.

I lean in to her and stop with our mouths an inch apart. I look at her lips. She looks at mine. We kiss so softly that at first I am not even sure we're touching. Her fingers wrap softly around my wrist; I hear the clink of her placing her glass on the table.

I pull away from her for just a moment and look at her, all of her: She's wearing a dark blue off-the-shoulder flowered sundress, and one leg is folded under her body, with the other dangling off the side of the couch. Her left hand grips her naked ankle; the other my wrist. Her blonde hair hangs over one shoulder and behind the other, exposing her long, slender neck, and her eyes are closed, her feather-duster eyelashes resting against her cheeks.

I smell her hair, a big, flowery smell, like a huge bouquet. I suddenly remember that, the first night I was with her, I returned home and woke up the next morning somehow still smelling it.

It's a moment just like the one in the hotel room with Lila last summer, a snapshot of flawless beauty, a scene so pleasing to the senses that it makes me grateful to be alive.

She's saying something. "....gonna run out on me again?"

"No, baby."

"So kiss me." And I do. Our mouths open and our tongues find one another, pressing hotly together, then apart, then together again, with equisite slowness.

I feel the soft skin of her hands as they slip around the back of my neck. As crazy as it may sound, her touch gives me goosebumps.

The kissing gets harder. Our bodies press together more tightly. I am so weak with desire that I doubt I could stand upright, even if I wanted to.

Her fingertips glide slowly across my cheeks, then through my hair, then again to the back of my neck. She pulls away from me; I open my eyes and she is staring at me.

My hands have found their way around her waist. Her leg is draped over mine. I am pulling her body so closely against me that the two of us barely take up half the couch.

I've got it bad for this girl. Tim does something to me; she always has. She doesn't do anything fancy: The conversation isn't the most interesting, and the food and drinks aren't the best I've ever tasted. But she somehow manages to set a mood, and I get the impression that she's in control of every single thing that happens.

I draw a deep, flowery breath. I'm relaxed and at peace. I'm happy. I'm having fun, so much so that I don't want this moment to end.

Shit. I sound like a lovesick teenager. LISTEN to me!

My hand wanders slowly between her thighs. She looks down for a moment.

"I believe it's your turn this time."

"What do you mean?" I think I know, but I want to hear it from her.

She unzips her dress and slides it down, revealing a statuesque, gorgeously nude body, quite possibly the most beautiful body I have ever seen. Sure, I've seen it before, but it stops my heart just the same.

She lays back down on the couch, straddling me with her legs, then fixes her eyes pleadingly onto mine.

I don't like going down on a girl until I've known her for a while, and until I'm fairly certain that she's not warming every cock in her zip code. Tim clearly does not qualify. So why am I considering it?

I'm considering it for a lot of reasons. I'm dangerously horny now, and I'll be in major physiological trouble if I don't have sex; plus, I don't want to jepardize a sure thing. What, exactly, is so bad about going down on a girl, anyway? Well, besides the smell, and the taste, and the way those kinky hairs stick in the back of your throat and make you want to throw up?

"I did it for you, baby," she purrs.

"Something suddenly came up..."

Thursday, June 23, 2005, 1:30pm
Steve's office

I told Heather, the girl from the drycleaners, that I would call later in the week to make arrangements for Friday.

"Hellooo?"

She sounds younger than I remember. She almost sounds like a kid, for Christ's sake! A LITTLE kid!

"May I .... speak to Heather?"

"Hold on!"

I hear the plastic thunk of what sounds like a receiver hitting ceramic tile. "Mommy!" the voice says, faintly.

Holy shit! She's got a kid?

"Who's this?" It's the kid again.

"This is Steve."

"It's STEVE, mom."

Heather picks up. "Hi, Steve!"

"Hey! Do you have a minute?"

"Yes. Casey, go pick up your Play-Doh, honey."

"Mommeeee? Who's Steeeeeve?" I hear in the background.

"NOW."

"So how old is your daughter?"

"Six. Going on 25."

"Uh-huh."

"Didn't I tell you I had a daughter?"

"No."

I've been with maybe 2 or 3 moms before. It's not that I avoid them; it's just that I usually pursue young, unattached girls, and most of them have not had kids.

Heather doesn't seem like the type who would step out on a husband, so I'm guessing she's a single mom. She wasn't wearing a ring, that much I know. Having a child is a lot of work, as my brother reminds me all the time, and if she's a single mom, she probably has a full-time job as well, which all adds up to a very full plate for one woman. And a full plate means little time for a serious relationship, which means that she's starting to sound like a very good fuck buddy candidate!

"Yep, I have one daughter. And I should probably tell you something before we go out..."

"What's that?"

"Well, technically I'm still married," she says with a little laugh. "My divorce will be final in a week."

"I see."

"I mean, it's totally over. The only reason I even talk to him is because of Casey, and then it's just hello and goodbye."

"I understand."

"So you still wanna go out?"

"Sure!"

"So where're you taking me?"

"How about Annabelle's?"

"Ooooh, that seafood place? That sounds AWESOME!"

"Yep, that's the one. Can I pick you up tomorrow at 7:00?"

"OK!"

**********

3:00pm

Tim never did call me after that night, and I never called her. But I did say I would call, and my plan was to wait until at least today to contact her, if she hadn't already done so.

"Hello?"

"Tim!"

"Steve? Is that you?"

"Yeah! How are you, Tim?"

"I'm fine! Just trying to line up some more catering jobs. How ARE you?"

"Great! Pretty busy."

"Ohhh."

"Listen, I don't want to take you away from work. I was just wondering if you're free Saturday night."

"No, my cousin is getting married out of state. I'm gonna be gone from Saturday until late Sunday or Monday."

"Ah, bummer."

I wonder if she'll suggest tomorrow. And I wonder what I'll say if she does.

"How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow..."

I could go out with Heather, and then meet Tim afterwards. No, too hectic. I'll be rushing Heather, and I don't want to do that on a first date. I suppose I could try to reschedule Heather, but there's no guarantee she'll be free on Saturday. Then again, anyone who says, "I haven't been on a date in months" probably doesn't have a full social calendar.

"Yeah, tomorrow!"

"OK."

"Can you come over around ten?"

"How about 10:30?" I don't want to be too agreeable, now.

"Sure!"

**********

4:00pm

"Heather, it's Steve. I have a small problem..."

A little barbecue sauce with this crow, please

Monday, June 20, 2005, 12:05pm
Suzanne's Restaurant

I always go over employee annual reviews at the restaurant of the employee's choice. It's a great way to make that person feel special, and to ensure that we won't be interrupted. As much.

Dom is, on balance, a very good employee and manager, but I believe everyone has areas on which they can improve, and I work hard to find such areas for everyone I review. Sometimes I'm accused of being nit-picky, or of trying to drive down the quality of the review so I can award the employee less of a raise. But an "everything's fine" review does not help anyone.

Dom and I have not gotten along very well since he busted me at Tim's house. He hasn't done anything overt; he just seems a lot busier lately. Work-wise, we've put our heads together and solved many complicated problems, or dealth with difficult people, but when someone puts us on hold and Celene Dion wafts tinnily out of my speaker phone, we both look uneasily at the pictures on my wall and away from each other.

Today is no exception. He's nodding and saying "Mm-hmm" at all the appropriate places, and listening intently. But it's very awkward. I guess I should not be surprised about that.

Dom doesn't care about Tim. He doesn't CARE about any woman, except, apparently, his grandmother out west. What is probably bothering him is that I disrespected him as a friend. That WAS kind of shitty.

"Dom, you know what I mean by "closing the loop," right?

"Mm-hmm. You follow up, keep the communication open, make sure everyone knows what's going on, make sure everything's resolved."

"Basically. Remember when we were submitting those returns online?"

"Yes, I remember, Steve."

"You had Paul send them in for you, which is fine. But that was the first time we ever filed that way-"

"...and it turned out that the returns were all rejected, but the rejections were in an attachment, not in the body of the email, and the attachment was blocked by the firewall, so Paul didn't see it," he says, impatiently.

"And you didn't ask to see the email."

"We've been over this ground before, Steve."

"Like I always say, there should be no surprises at an employee review. You should already know how you're doing, if I am doing my job right."

"I know."

"There's a fine line between delegating and leaving employees unsupervised. Most of the time, you're ok. Occasionally, something like this happens. It's not a huge deal, just something to work on."

"Steve, this is one incident. It's not a trend."

It's a typical employee-review tactic. If your boss doesn't cite examples, you nail him for not backing up what he says. If he gives you ONE example, you say it's an isolated incident.

"We've had this conversation before, about other issues. Again, your review is very good overall, Dom!"

He grumbles, swirling the water in his glass.

I am tired of this wedge between Dom and me. He's far too cocky to tell me this is bothering him, and I am too cocky to apologize. But I guess it's time to choke down some pride, since this whole thing is more my fault than his.

"Dom, I think we need to talk."

He looks up at me, suddenly, wide-eyed.

"I did something I'm ashamed of."

He sees the way my eyes sink slowly downward, he hears the hesitation in my voice. He knows of what I speak. He nods, slowly. "Forget it."

Am I ashamed? Not really. As far as I am concerned, this kind of thing is pretty Darwinian, or at least it should be. I fucked her that night, and he did not, which must mean that I had something to offer that he didn't. Next time, he'll win and I'll lose, maybe, and we'll all get on with our lives.

No, I am doing this for Dom's sake, and for mine. I don't like the discomfort between us. He probably knows that I am full of shit, but I'm sure he appreciates the gesture.

"No. You're a friend, and... that's no way to treat a friend."

"I told you she wasn't my girlfriend."

"This isn't about her. It's about me and you."

"It's just like I said, Steve. After what... happened, I knew you'd end up with Tim."

"Right."

"That's why I apologized for that, because I was wrong."

"So you have NO problem at all about what happened?"

He shrugs. "I know Tim. I know this was probably her idea. But it was a little embarrassing."

"Uh-huh."

"Seeing your car in the driveway, after she told me she was sick..."

"Yeah, that was pretty awkward."

"A phone call would have been nice, Steve."

"I know. I apologize."

"You wanna be with her, I don't CARE. I don't GIVE a shit about her. You know how she is; she's a fucking putan. You want to do her, I'll go find someone else. Just TELL me."

"I know."

"Just close the loop, Steve."

"Touche."