"He was laughing"

"Do you really want to know what happened, Steve?"

"Yes."

"I was 12 years old, in sixth grade. It was a Thursday. May 28, 1992. I remember there were two weeks left of school.

We didn't have that much money. We were renting an apartment in a bad section of town. There was this Puerto Rican guy who lived in my building; his name was Alex Rodriguez, just like the baseball player. He used to hit on me constantly. 'My queen,' he used to call me. 'Hey, my queen, when are you gonna go out on a date with me?' He was 18.

I kept telling him I was too young for him, I told him I was 12 and I figured that that would get rid of him, but he didn't care. He just kept hitting on me, all the time.

On that day, my dad was at work and mom was out shopping. It was really hot outside, and we didn't have air conditioning. When I got home from school, I was feeling kind of sick, so I opened a window, laid down in bed, and fell asleep.

I woke up with a... pinching feeling on my neck. I opened my eyes and Alex was standing there with a knife to my throat. He had climbed in from the fire escape. I was so scared.He told me if I screamed he would kill me. I think he was high; his eyes looked really weird.

I was kinda naive and I didn't realize what he wanted. I just thought he was going to rob the place or something. But then he told me to take my clothes off and I knew he was going to rape me.

I got really pissed off all of a sudden, and I said, 'NO!' and he freaked. He went to stab me in the leg and I pulled away, and we struggled a little, and the knife dug in and went up my leg. It started bleeding really bad. And you have no idea how much it hurt. Sometimes I have nightmares and I can still feel it.

I wanted to cry so bad, but I knew he'd get even madder, so I bit down on my pillow as hard as I could. I was almost glad that he cut me, because I figured he'd see all the blood and get scared, or grossed out, and he'd just leave. But he didn't even care. He just told me again to get undressed.

So I started pulling off my shirt, really slow, figuring that my mom would come home and catch him. But he knew what I was doing. He said, 'You're trying to stall until your mommy gets home, aren't you? Well, if she gets home and I'm still here, I'll just kill her too. How about that, my queen?'

He said, 'I'll kill her TOO.' I figured that meant he was planning on killing me, and I thought that if I was going to die anyway, I might as well fight back. So I started fighting him, and he grabbed my leg where he cut me, and squeezed it, and I was in such pain that I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was naked and he had his pants down. He almost couldn't get it up; he was... standing over me, jerking off, until he got hard.

He really hurt me. I had, you know, fingered myself before, just out of curiosity, and even putting a finger inside me hurt, so imagine how this felt. He wasn't gentle, obviously. It felt like he was ripping my insides apart. My leg was already killing me, and by then I just wanted to die so all the pain would stop.

The cut wasn't that bad at first, but he was being really rough with me, and it kept opening up wider and wider. I looked down at one point, and there were huge splotches of blood all over the bedsheet. I thought I was bleeding to death. He had his pants down, and there was blood all over his pants too. I was still really scared but I started feeling weak and I just stopped fighting him and let him finish, because I thought maybe he'd leave.

He came inside me, and then he got up and saw the blood and said, 'Eww, gross!' and he put the sheet over my leg. Then he started playing with the blade of the knife and looking at me with this really sick, twisted face, and I figured he was going to kill me. I wanted to say that I wouldn't tell, and that he didn't have to kill me, but I was too scared to talk. My heart was pounding so bad I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

Then someone banged on the front door. I don't know who it was, the paperboy, probably, but I didn't answer it. As soon as Alex heard it, he ran back out the window and got away.

I called my dad at work to tell him what happened, and they wouldn't let me talk to him. I was hysterical crying, and I said I really needed to talk to him, and they said, 'He's allowed a 15-minute break; he'll call you then.'

I was afraid to call 911 because I thought they'd say that it wasn't a real emergency, so I went and got an ace bandage and tried to wrap up my leg, but it was still bleeding pretty badly.

I laid there in bed shaking until mom came home, and when she saw me, and all the blood, she started screaming. She looked like she was going to pass out.

They took me to the hospital, and I needed 60 stitches in my leg. The police came and asked me who did it, and I told them. I told them everything that happened.

They found Alex at a movie theater, watching Wayne's World. He was laughing, cracking up at the movie, like nothing had happened. They took him out of the theater and he still had the bloody pants on. They put him in jail with no bail.

The prosecutor was a dick. First he was really nice to me, but then he started doubting me, implying that it was consensual, like I wanted to get raped and have my leg cut wide open. It was the inner city, and it wasn't unusual for 12-year-old girls to be having sex, and I think he thought it was just a lot of ghetto drama.

Anyway, they set a court date after all, but when I was supposed to be in court, I was in the hospital with asthma, and I couldn't go, and they didn't reschedule. So Alex got away with it.

I used to have these daydreams, where I'd be walking two pit bulls, and I'd see Alex, and I'd let go of the leashes and watch while the dogs ripped him apart. I also used to fantasize about setting him on fire and just listening to him scream while he burned up.

I got really obsessed with fire because of that fantasy. I used to light up those long fireplace matches and burn them all the way down. And then I would light up the burners on the stove and stare at them for hours. That's how I started cooking: Mom said, 'If you're going to play with the stove, you might as well learn how to cook.' So I did!

I went to therapy for a long time, and I feel ok now. I've gotten past it, so I don't like to revisit it very much. I don't want special treatment, and I don't want sympathy. I just want to live my life and be happy. I never would have told you, Steve, but you asked me twice, and I felt like you needed to know.

Steve, don't cry."

Deeper and Deeper

July 23, 2005
Steve's house - showering with Tim

I don't normally turn every light in the bathroom on when I shower, but then again, I don't normally shower with the likes of Tim. And I'm making the most of it, too, marveling at the way her round boobs and curvy thighs shine with the running water.

For some time now, I've been dying to ask her about the scar on her knee. This is no ordinary fell-off-the-bike scar: It's eight or nine inches long, thick, and twists grotesquely around her right kneecap, as if some demented surgeon tried to remove her patella. It looks all the more horrible when compared to the rest of her flawless body, and I actually cringe a bit when I think of what must have happened to her.

I haven't asked her until now, for two reasons: First, I have found that being too inquisitive can work against me. Paying some attention to a girl is good; it shows you are interested. Paying too much attention can make you look overzealous, or in extreme cases, creepy. I like to err on the side of caution and make her wonder about how much I really care.

Secondly, I am sure that every other guy she's ever been with has asked her about the scar. She's probably tired of hearing it. If I am the one who doesn't ask about it, I'll stand out in her mind much more than the ones who do. If there's one thing I hate, it's being lumped in with a bunch of other people.

But my curiosity has gotten the better of me. The scar is probably the result of a car wreck or a freak childhood accident, but on the off chance that she was assaulted or something, I might score some points by showing her my compassionate side. And I'm pretty sure that these points are the kind that can be redeemed for ass-fucks.

"How did you get that scar?" I ask, looking at her, not at her knee.

"It's nothing. It happened when I was a little kid," she says quickly, almost as if she was expecting the question, her voice completely devoid of emotion. "Can you hand me that shampoo?" she asks, pointing to a tall bottle on the shower ledge. I hand it to her.

She doesn't offer any more information, and I don't ask.

**********

Thursday, September 1, 2005
Tim's house

"I have something for you, Tim," I say.

"What?"

I reach into my pocket and pull out a flat, six inch-long box, wrapped tightly in shiny silver paper.

"What is this?"

"Open it!"

She pulls the paper away. Tiffany's, it says on the top. She looks at me, her smile fading. "What are you up to, Steve?"

"Open it up!"

She opens the box. Inside, lovingly resting on a black velvety cushion, is a candy necklace.

"You are so weird," she laughs.

"You said you liked them!"

She puts it on. It actually looks kind of attractive, hugging her neck tightly like a pastel-colored choker chain.

"You're so sweet," she says, casting her eyes downward, fiddling nervously with the box.

"Because I gave you a candy necklace?"

"Because you did something nice for me."

"You're welcome."

She kisses me softly on the cheek.

There's a question that I have to ask her, something that I know I shouldn't. It's against everything that I have learned, relationship-wise, but the need to know still burns and eats at me. The words refuse to stay inside, like a mouthful of sour milk that I have to spit out.

"What happened with you and Dom?" I ask, and immediately regret it.

I don't care what happened. Or at least, I shouldn't care. But Dom seems so successful with the ladies, so effortlessly popular, that I can't imagine any girl not being interested in him. I do alright, too, but if anything, Dom and I are equals in that department; why does she prefer me over him? Why did she dump him for me?

She shrugs. "It just didn't work out." It was a casual reply, a reply that tells me she hasn't thought about this very much.

"Why?"

"Steve, you know Dom."

"Dom liked you."

"No he didn't!"

"He's pissed at me, you know. About us. I'm happy you're with me, but he is mad."

"He's pissed because he lost."

"Why did he lose?"

She tilts her head at me. "Why do you care?" she smiles.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"What."

"Why me? I mean, you could have anyone-"

I have no idea what's come over me. I know how the game works. I know why she is drawn to me: I act like a conceited, arrogant son of a bitch, and I'm successful, and that piques her interest. But maybe I want to think that it goes deeper than that. Maybe it does!

I expect Tim to tell me to reel it in, to take a deep breath, to think, to stop being such an insecure wimp. But she looks thoughtfully to the side for a long few seconds and then speaks.

"Because you make me laugh. And I feel safe with you."

It's times like these that make me wonder if I know anything about girls at all. If you had told me a month ago that I'd be opening myself up to Tim this way, I'd have told you you were crazy. Showing my cards like this should have been relationship suicide. But my gut told me to do it anyway, and I did, and sure enough, I got a response I didn't bargain for.

Since when does Tim care about "feeling safe"? And how unlikely is it that we two bed-hopping commitment-phobes are sitting around, sharing our innermost vulnerabilities?

**********

Wednesday, September 14, 2005, 8:00am
Wachovia Bank lobby

I'm filling out a deposit slip when the door swings open and a short, busty blonde walks in. From the corner of my eye, she looks familiar. She looks just like....

"Tim!"

"Steve!" She laughs out loud. "We've gotta stop meeting like this!"

"What'cha doing?"

"Needed to cash some checks from work. You?"

Something underneath the collar of her pink polo shirt catches my eye. "What's that?" I ask.

"What's what?"

I reach under her collar and pull out....

the candy necklace.

She blushes.

"You're still wearing it?"

"Mm-hmm." she smiles warmly.

"Why?"

"Ste-eve!"

"Tell me."

"Just because."

"Do you wear it all the time?"

"Sometimes." Long pause. "When I'm thinking about you."

"Hey, you wanna hang out later?"

"Sure!"

**********

Tim's house
8:00pm

It's great having a girlfriend who likes to cook. I've taken to inviting myself over once or twice a week, and I'm always treated to some orgasmically-delicious concoction that she's testing out for her catering business.

"Did you like the creme broulee?"

"It was great! Do you have any more?"

"No. Was it too sugary?"

"Nope. Perfect."

"Do you think it was underdone?"

"Tim! It was fine!"

"Sorry." She plops down on the sofa next to me, one leg folded under her, her head against mine. We sit this way by habit now, without even thinking about it. Instinctively, I put my arm around her.

"Hey," I say.

"Hm?"

"How did you get that scar?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Yeah, I do."

"It's from when I was raped."

I'm catching up, I swear...

July 13, 2005, 3:00pm
Steve's house

"Hey Tim, it's Steve."

"Hi, Steve!"

"Listen, there's a pool party at my neighbor's house Friday-"

"I'd love to."

"How'd you know I was asking? How'd you know I wasn't going to ask you to babysit my pet iguana?"

"You mean your step-daughter?"

"My what?"

"That woman you're dating has a daughter, doesn't she?"

Pause. "Hilarious, Tim."

"Did you really get an iguana?"

"Tim, I can't even keep a house plant alive."

"Good point."

"So are you in?"

"Of course! I said I'd love to! You want to come over tonight? I'm testing out a new dish for my catering business."

"Sure!"

**********

Tim's house
6:30

"Hey, I want to thank you for inviting me to the party on Friday. I really appreciate it. It sounds like fun!"

I stop, waiting for a snide remark. But there's nothing except a wide smile.

Tim's smile is beautiful, all plump lips and white teeth. Yeah, she still gives me goosebumps. I often compare her to Lila in my mind, but the two are very different; Lila is more exotic-looking, like a model you'd see in a cosmetic ad, whereas Tim is more classically American, like a girl you'd see on an Andy Griffith Show rerun. My dad and my brother Chris once got into a debate as to which one was prettier; dad said it was Lila, "by a mile," and Chris was just as sure it was Tim. As for me, I can't decide, but I do think that Tim looks a bit more mature; she's more of a woman, whereas Lila is more of a girl.

"You're welcome. It's always a lot of fun over there."

My phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Steve, it's Dom. Do you have the number for that Unix guy who helps us out sometimes? Greg, I think his name is?"

"What's wrong?"

"The old server is lagging like hell. I need to get him in first thing in the morning."

"I have his card. Hold on." I pull out my wallet and read him the number.

"Thanks, Steve. So you wanna do drinks later?"

"I might be a little bit busy."

"Yeah, me too, hopefully," he laughs. I'm vaguely aware that Tim's phone is ringing. "So, I better go give this guy a call."

"Good deal. Have a good night, Dom."

"You too, Steve."

I turn around, and Tim is talking on her cordless phone. "Bay-beee!" she says, seductively.

I burn with jealousy. Who the hell is she talking to like that? That "baby" sounded exactly the way it does when she says it to me.

"You don't call me anymore," she says, and I can hear the pout in her voice as she walks to the far corner of the room, maybe 25 feet away.

"Suuure!" she says, lowering her voice. I walk to the kitchen, so it doesn't look like I am eavesdropping. But I am.

"Friday might be a problem."

Some dude is asking her out. No, Tim and I were not exclusive at this point (check the date), but girls like Tim always bring out the competitiveness in me.

"I might have something going on. It's no big deal, though," I hear her say.

We are both seeing other people, and I can't complain that she is doing the same thing that I am. But I sure as hell won't sit still for it if she's going to make dates with some other guy right under my nose. Now, it's a matter of principle; if I act like nothing happened, if I merely tolerate this slap across the face, I'll look like a wimp. She'll think she can walk all over me. Anything but that! And what the fuck did she mean by "No big deal"?

Fuck this. I open the front door, slowly, so as not to make a sound. A lesser man would open the door loudly and make a show of his exit to get her attention, so he could confront her. But confronting her would be a sign of weakness; confronting her is giving her a chance to explain, which implies that there might be an acceptable explanation. There isn't. Or if there is, I don't want to hear it.

CREEEEEEAK! goes the door.

Shit. She heard that for sure. Now I've got about five seconds before she sees that I am leaving. I better make a break for it.

I burst through the screen door, across the circular parking area and into my car, pressing in the clutch and starting the engine as I roll backwards. I navigate around the circle and glance back towards the door as I pass by, and there is Tim, standing with her right hand in the air. It looks like she's holding....

My wallet.

I pat my right pocket. Empty. Son of a bitch. I must have left it on the table when I was getting the number for Dom.

I kill the engine and pull the parking brake, then get out and walk slowly to the door. Jesus, this is embarrassing.

I try not to look at her face as I approach her, but I can't help it; her expression is quizzical, as if she can't understand what on earth I could be so angry about.

I try to snatch the wallet. She pulls it back. "Are we gonna talk about this?"

She is trying to make me tell her what's wrong, even though we both already know. She's purposely making it difficult for me to disprespect her, the same way I do to people who try to disrespect me.

"Don't ever fucking do that to me, Tim."

"What, I-" She is really working me over. She's toying with me, giving me the innocent routine.

I decide to go the humiliation route - I'll embarrass her, and then, to shut me up, she'll give me the wallet back and I can leave. "I don't give a shit who you open your legs to. But at least have the common decency to... make plans on your own time, when I am not here."

She grins at me, a small, smug smile.

My plan backfired. Now she knows I am affected by what she did.

"Steve, why are you getting so offended?"

"I'm not offended. Your business is your business. I don't want to talk about it; you're the one who won't give me my wallet."

"Of course you're offended. That's why you tried to leave."

I look at her.

"We aren't going steady, Steve."

"Going steady? What, are we in high school now?"

She gives me an even bigger smile. I really should learn to shut up.

"Why are you getting so upset? My God!" she says, rolling her eyes. She's really playing this up, making me out to be an insecure baby, without ever saying it outright. This girl is good.

Now I have to calm down, lest I prove her point. "It was just rude, Tim, that's all."

"I went to the other side of the room. Were you eavesdropping?"

"You talk loud."

"I whispered."

"Could I have my wallet, please?"

I was just with Heather last night, and I am struck by how different the two of them are. THIS is how a girl reels me in, by competing with me, by beating me at my own game. In some crazy way, I like that Tim is so manipulative, that she is so skilled at making me squirm. Heather wouldn't have the first clue about any of that. Comparing the two of them is like comparing David Ortiz to a bat boy.

She extends a toned right arm, wallet in hand. I take it back and she stares at me, with beautiful, calm, loving eyes. I stare back. How could I ever be mad at her?, I hear myself think.

Now I have my wallet; I'm not tied to her anymore. I can run away, and never come back if I don't want to. So why do I feel like my feet are cemented to the sidewalk?

"Steve, I'm sorry I offended you. OK?"

Long pause. Crickets chirp. "Don't worry about it," I say, finally.

She didn't give in, almost at all. She didn't say she wasn't going out with that dude on Friday, she didn't talk about "us"; we didn't resolve anything, really. She just kind of.. apologized for MY reaction, and somehow, she made me think that she was going out of her way to do so. She made me feel grateful for this half-assed apology.

"Would you please come inside?" she says.

"I have to-"

"What?"

"I have to park my car."

How to piss off a girl in three minutes or less

Thursday, August 4, 2005
Heather's house (continued)

"In the spare bedroom, Steve!"

I like the way Heather runs her home. Her house is extremely neat, even though she seems to be busy all the time, and she gets a lot of things done, yet she never seems stressed out. I know how hard it must be to be a single parent and I admire her for facing the challenge head-on and never complaining.

I lean in the doorway of her spare bedroom and watch as she furiously writes out a check for her electric bill. Her hands are slim and strong-looking, with short fingernails and a single, simple ring on her left thumb.

"What's up, sweetie?" she asks, not looking up.

"I need to talk to you."

"What about?" she peeks up from her writing.

"I don't think we should see each other anymore."

She turns to face me, her mouth closing, then opening, her head shaking slightly, as if she can't quite believe what she's heard.

"I- why, Steve?"

"Heather, one guy has already- dropped the ball when it comes to Casey, and-"

"OH no," she laughs. "Do NOT make this about Casey. This has NOTHING to do with Casey."

"Yeah, it does."

"No it doesn't! You've seen Casey what, five, six times tops?"

"Probably."

"I only asked you to babysit because it was an emergency-"

"This has nothing to do with babysitting. It's just that we've been seeing each other a lot, and things are starting to-"

"Fester?" she says, sarcastically, her eyebrow raised.

It was a good line. Frankly, I didn't expect her to come up with anything that clever, and she's thrown me off a little.

"No, Heather! But if we keep seeing each other, I'll be seeing more of Casey too."

"So?"

"So, if it doesn't work out-"

"Why do you keep saying that? Why do you keep saying, 'if it doesn't work out'? Are you planning on it not working out? Do you not want it to work out? What?"

Time to change the subject! Let's see: How about, "Do you think this country will ever switch to the metric system?" or, "Isn't it something about those hurricanes down south? That greenhouse effect is a sonofabitch, no?"

"I'm saying IF, not WHEN. Now there's a third party involved, and we have to be more careful."

"Do NOT tell me how to raise my child!" she shouts, her lips tight, her eyes narrowed fiercely. "I love my daughter more than anything else in the world. If I thought there were any chance of her being harmed by this, I wouldn't be with you!"

It's actually a good point. But my mind keeps going back to that picture I found. I think she's right, inasmuch as she doesn't think she's doing anything to hurt Casey. But I still stand by my original position; I have been down this road many times, with many women. I know better than she does what is going to happen, and I can't be so cavalier about it when there is a child involved.

She reminds me of Stephanie in a way: She is strong-willed, and smart, and fierce when she has to be, but she also has a tender side, and a horny side too. She is a likeable person, and I am sure she was a good wife to her husband before he took off.

"Heather, we talked about this. I told you I wasn't looking for-"

"You weren't looking for a commitment? No, you said you wanted to take it slow. There's a difference."

"That's not what I said."

"So we're going to argue semantics now?"

"Heather, you don't want to be with me," I say, impatiently.

"Why are you telling me what I want? Why do you keep talking to me like I'm a child?"

"I don't mean to."

"You know what I think? I think we are starting to get close, and you are getting scared. And you're using Casey as an excuse, which I think is the most cowardly thing in the world."

"Fine. I'm a coward. So forget about me, and you'll be better off."

"Whatever."

"And another one gone, and another one gone.."

Thursday, August 4, 2005, 6:00pm
Heather's house

My phone rings.

"This is Steve."

"Steve, Paulie."

"Hey, guy!"

"Listen, I'm in my car, and I don't have anything to write with. Can you write something down for me?"

"What, am I your fucking secretary now?"

"Come on, Steve, don't give me shit."

"Hold on, let me get some paper."

I grab a sheet of scrap paper from the pile on top of the three-foot tall speaker in Heather's TV room, and take a pen off the entertainment center.

"Go ahead, Paul."

"Ok, sell my Janus fund, and buy 100 of Tyco. Also pick up some Sarah Lee-"

Paulie is an avid investor. He inherited some stock from his grandfather about 8 years ago, sold it and bought other stocks wisely, and made over 100 grand, and now he thinks he's Warren Buffett. He usually does all right, though.

There is a crayoned picture on the paper, obviously drawn by Casey, of a little girl with a long pony tail and frilly dress, her cheeks filled with oversized blue tears. Below the drawing, in unsteady block letters, it says:

DADDY
WHEN WILL YOU COME HOME
WHEN WILL WE PLAY GAMES

Casey is a real person, with real feelings. Her father obviously is not around much, and that is hurting her. Heather is all she has. It turns my stomach to think that I have stolen even one minute away from her by monopolizing Heather.

If I gave a shit, that would be one thing. But honestly, I don't. I might one day, but I might not, and in the time it would take to find out, Casey would be even lonelier than she already is. How shitty is that?

Besides, I know that, sooner or later, I'm going to get to know Casey better, and we are going to get closer. And, when the inevitable splitup happens, I will have hurt someone who is completely innocent who did nothing to deserve it.

"...and I gotta see if I can get a prospectus on that money market fund-"

I've got to speak to Heather. I've got to break it off before Casey really gets hurt.

"....STEVE!"

"Huh?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah, yeah, Janus Fund, dump it."

"Never fucking mind."

We hang up.

"Heather, I need to talk to you," I say.

The truth is out there in here

I am getting aggravated.

When I was about 25 or so, I once woke up in the middle of the night with a loud, ferocious toothache, so exquisitely painful that the tiniest head movement sent bolts of pain straight through my skull. Not only couldn't I go back to sleep; I couldn't even move!

You're slightly more annoying than that. Well, some of you, anyway.

First, I owed you an explanation of where I went for two months. Then, the writing was bad. Then, most ridiculously of all, someone cooked up the completely dunderheaded notion that a hacker hijacked my blog and is now writing as me!

Do me a favor. Raise your hand, right now, if you honestly believe this could have happened.

If you actually buy that crap, or any other X-Files worthy theory involving 9-foot-tall intergalactic kidnappers with green skin and hydrocephalic heads, you are off your chump, as the Monty Python gang would say. Have any of you actually gone back and read your own comments? Do you have any comprehension of how reality-challenged you sound? And by the way, if you're raising your hand to a computer screen, I rest my case.

Allow me to be very honest. Right after I came back, one of my friends showed me part of a book she was publishing. I read it, and it felt... polished. It had a depth that I suddenly felt my own work did not have. Filled with self-doubt, I sat down and wrote two posts in a row, forcing myself to be more descriptive and detailed.

The operative word there is forcing.

I went back and read them, and almost immediately did not like how they sounded. It wasn't me anymore. I didn't recognize the person who had written them, and I decided right away that, for better or for worse, I had found a style and a voice and a rhythm that worked for me, and I needed to be true to that. Of course, the writing wasn't as horrible as some of you made it out to be, but you see me working.

So, I went back to work, gleefully filling my posts with dialogue and italicized smartass-isms. I read them back, and loved them. But some of you are so stuck on your theories that you don't want to let them go. I probably shouldn't be surprised.

One other thing: I made some comments about Casey that I regret. Talking about knives, and electrical appliances, and playing in traffic, even when completely in jest, feels horribly insensitive and inconsiderate in retrospect.

I'm not crazy about kids, but I do like Casey very much. She is smart, well-behaved, and very mature for her age. This is almost too obvious to say, but I wish her no ill will at all, and would love nothing more than for her to be deliriously happy, safe and sound her whole life.

I said some stupid shit, and I used Heather. That appalls some of you. You're shocked that I am not a fine, upstanding, morally upright pillar of my community.

Surely you jest.

I'm an asshole. You KNOW I'm an asshole. Most of you like me BECAUSE I'm an asshole. If I were a briefcase-toting 9-to-5'er with 2.3 children whose biggest thrill was riding the Matterhorn at Disneyworld once a year, you wouldn't give a shit what I have to say. You wouldn't read my blog. I wouldn't even have one.

If you're looking to read nice-guy stories, go elsewhere. Maybe Donny Osmond has started himself a blog.

And quit breaking my balls about the writing. The writing was different briefly, but now it is the same as when I left. Go back and read my posts from June and July; they feel the same. In fact, some of the new ones were written BEFORE I stopped blogging. Any difference is in your imagination.

......aaand, exhale.

"Yeah, 'cause she's a good eleven years away from being ready for a threesome..."

Saturday, July 16, 2005, 12:30pm
Heather's house

"You sure she's gonna stay down there?"

"She should, yeah," Heather said, slipping her blue sweatshorts down her thighs, revealing stretchy grey cotton panties.

I haven't been very kind to Heather since we've been together. I've put all sorts of conditions on our relationship, not calling her for days, demanding that she give me space and privacy, deliberately giving her vague answers about other people I was seeing.

She met her ex-husband in college. They were both seniors at the time; she was probably the hot chick who sat behind him in sociology class, and they probably hooked up a few times, then dated casually, like 21-year-olds do, and then started getting serious right around graduation. The relationship probably grew and blossomed without any effort from either of them. It probably seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and now she's expecting things to work the same way with me.

She's not handling it well. She's giving in to my every whim, without voicing her opinion or trying to work out a compromise. I told her that I wasn't looking for a girlfriend, that I wanted to date around, and she said she did too, but her eyes told a different story. Her face turned hard, betraying her disappointment. And yet, she kept taking my calls, and rearranging her plans every time I callously told her I needed to reschedule.

She is expecting this to be effortless, the way it was with her ex. Trying doesn't feel right to her. She has a lot to learn, and at this particular moment, I'm in no mood to teach anyone anything.

Some guys are grossed out by the idea of fucking a woman who's had a child. To me, if she's fat and ugly, then I want no part of her, kid or no, and if she is firm, tight, soft, and round in all the appropriate places, then, again, her parental status makes no difference.

Heather has a great body: Athletic but not overly muscular, thin, but not frail. Her tits don't sag the way you might expect of a woman over 30: They're just big enough to fill my hands nicely, but small enough to be called "perky".

I stand behind her and move her shoulder-length light brown hair away from the nape of her neck so I can kiss her while I unhook her bra. I run my hands over her breasts, cupping them gently. My pelvis bumps against the crack of her ass.

"You're nice and hard. Mr. horndog," she giggles.

"You see what you do to me?"

I watch as she slips her panties down and steps gracefully out of them, her smooth feet lifting off the carpet then touching back down, one at a time, her deep red toenails standing out starkly in the half light.

We lay down and she curls up next to me, her hair against my stomach, her left hand rubbing my cock softly. "You really want me to do this, don't you?"

"That all depends on how crazy you want to make me."

Her head obscures my view. The pleasure rockets straight to my brain as I feel her warm toungue on me, running slowly up the shaft. The room is perfectly silent, save for the moist sound of her lips parting as her licking grows more insistent, faster, wetter.

Her head raises up slightly; I wonder if she's thinking of-

She puts it in her mouth. I can see the bottom few inches of my cock, and the silouette of her widely parted lips gliding softly up and down on it. She's almost deep-throating me!

"Mmmmm," she says, wiping her bottom lip with her middle finger. "You're gonna make me gag!"

But then she opens her mouth and slides it down again, her fingers pushing firmly down on my balls, hard enough to feel good, but not hard enough to hurt.

She turns her head this way and that, her up and down movements slower, deeper, ever more exaggerated. My stomach pitches and yaws; my cock throbs with hot pleasure, and my heart pounds out of control.

"Ugh," she says, softly.

"Went down too far?" I ask, absently.

"No, it was just a little pre-cum."

"Ohhh."

"Guess I'm doing a good job, huh?"

"You're doing a VERY good job," I say, pulling away from her and turning over to face her. She opens her thin, muscled legs to me, our eyes locked together.

"I want you SO fucking bad right now, Heather."

"So fuck me, Steve."

I push into her easily; her legs embrace me, and my mouth finds her nipple, licking, sucking, biting.

"Ohhhh, you're nice and deep," she moans, her head pulled back, her thin neck fully exposed. I push it in and out of her, faster, surrounded by the sounds of our hard breathing and the light slapping of our bodies together.

"Oh right there, RIGHT there, don't stop fucking me, Steve! Oh my God that feels-"

BOOM BOOM BOOM! The bedroom door. Click, click! The doorknob. It's locked.

"Mommeeeee?" says a faint voice .

I stop fucking, my arms fully extended on either side of her, as if doing a push-up.

"Go back downstairs, Casey," Heather says, firmly.

Yeah, Casey. Go back downstairs, preferably to the kitchen, where there are all manner of sharp objects and electrical applicances for you to play with.

"Mommy, what are you doing?" Casey asks from the other side of the door.

"We're talking, honey. We'll be down in a minute, ok?"

Speaking of talking, maybe we should discuss buying one of those Hannibal Lechter muzzle-masks for your daughter. Or perhaps an animal cage?

"What are you talking about?" Casey asks.

Hey, Casey? Never mind what I said about the kitchen. Forget the kitchen entirely. Just walk straight out the front door and into the street. And make sure you don't look first. K?

"NOW!"

"Oh-kay," Casey says, dejectedly. Heather narrows her eyes and goes perfectly still; suddenly, we hear a faint creak! as Casey walks down the stairs.

"She went downstairs." Heather's smile returns. It's a big, happy smile. "Sorry for the interruption."

I penetrate her again. "Ughhhhh," she moans, her eyes slipping closed, her lip curling.

Now we are fucking again, harder and faster than before. "Do you want me to come all over you?"

"Uh-huh," she breathes.

I pull out of her, stripping off my condom and blasting her stomach with hot cum.

She rolls onto her back, breathing heavily. "Thank God I locked the door."

Yeah, great. Now, about that blowjob...

I hate kids.

Any human being under the age of 10 should be outfitted with mute and pause buttons, so they can be shut off at night like appliances, and dog-shock collars to zap them when they walk in front of the TV screen.

After they hit 10 years old, of course, none of that is necessary, because by then it's no longer cool to hang out with grownups, and all the really status-conscious youngsters shut themselves in their rooms like the Game-Boy obsessed recluses that they are.

Since I feel that way, maybe that's why Heather, the MILF'y mom, kept me at such a distance from her six-year-old daughter Casey. "Just pull up to the driveway; I'll run out!" she'd say, or "The house is a mess; how about if I just meet you at the restaurant?" It was obvious she didn't want me near Casey, and that was fine with me. I sure as hell wasn't looking to make any pint-sized pals anyway, and I definitely wasn't trying for an instant family. I found it insulting that she wouldn't come out and tell me what she was doing, rather than hide behind a list of tired excuses. What, was I stupid?

She also probably didn't want Casey to get attached. Awww. I'm all gooey inside!

I did meet Casey a few times, furtive, awkward hello's, while I stood in the doorway grinning sheepishly, and she hid her face behind her mother's knees. That was perfect for me; the less complication, the better. And that's what she was, a complication.

**********

Saturday, July 16, 2005, 10:30am
Steve's house

"Hello?"

"Hi Steve! It's Heather! How are ya?"

"Fine, you?"

"Could I ask you a MAJOR favor?"

"What's that?"

"I have an appointment that I HAVE to get to, and my babysitter didn't show up, and I can't get her on the phone-"

Oh, Jesus no.

"Yeah?"

"And I have to be there in a half hour, and I would NEVER ask you this normally, but could you please, please watch Casey for an hour, hour and a half tops?"

Um, no. I think I'll opt for something less painful, like gargling with broken glass.

"You do understand that you're gonna owe me a big one for this."

"Trust me, Steve. I will be extremely grateful."

"HOW grateful, exactly?"

Her voice sinks to a naughty whisper. "Maybe blow job grateful."

I get hard. Yes, we have fucked before, but she is very squeamish about putting it in her mouth. "Not yet," she'd say.

**********

11:05
Heather's house

Casey is kneeling at a low coffee table, a tan, workmanlike piece of furniture covered in crayon scribbles and dried juice stains. She peeks up from her coloring when she thinks I'm not looking, staring at me as if studying a dead cricket in the driveway.

"Steeeeve?" she says sweetly, rocking nervously back and forth against the table.

"Hm?"

"What should I draw?"

"Um, how about an airplane?"

"I don't WANNA draw an airplane!" she snaps. We look at one another, as if neither of us can believe she said it.

"Well, a car then."

"I don't LIKE drawing cars!"

"Well what DO you like drawing, Casey?"

"I don't know. TELL me!"

How about a little pain in the ass? Can you draw one of those?

"What's your favorite animal?"

"A zebra. No, a horse. No, a zebra, a zebra!"

"OK, draw me a nice zebra then. And make sure he's blue, and pink!" I say, wide-eyed. Maybe she'll laugh, and forget about how uncooperative she's trying to be.

"Nooo!" she giggles, and starts coloring.

The zebra's only got three legs and a snout when she suddenly looks up at me. "Steeeeeve?"

"Yeah?"

"What's a beaner?"

"A BEANER?"

"What is it?"

It's a racist term, of course, but how the hell could she have heard that? At any rate, it's not my job to talk to her about this shit, so I'll just dodge the question.

"Where did you hear that, Casey?"

"Mommeeeee," she says, coloring again.

NO way Heather referred to someone as a "beaner", especially not in front of Casey.

"What did mommy say?"

"She said, 'Steve drives a beaner.'"

I laugh out loud. "No, that's BEAMER, honey! BEA-MER!"

"Oh."

"Did mommy say anything else?"

"No," she says, filling in a black stripe.

**********

12:30

"I am SO sorry I'm late. Did you guys have fun?!"

"We sure did," I say. Casey was no trouble at all; she just colored and played quietly the whole time. I basically did nothing, except read about Brad and Angelina and look for cleavage in magazine ads.

She was an OK kid, I guess, as kids go.

"Mommy! Guess what?"

"What, Casey!"

"Steve doesn't know his animals very well. And he called me 'honey'!"

"Oh, that's so sweet!"

Heather looks at me with soft blue eyes. A little smile touches her lips. "Casey, mommy and Steve are gonna go upstairs for a minute, ok?"

To be continued...

I'm guessing PAX TV is going to pass on this one...

Thursday, September 15, 7:15pm
Steve's house

"Hello?"

"Jenny. Steve." I'm trying to control my temper but I can feel the anger seeping out.

"Steve? What's wrong?"

"What's wrong?"

She draws a long breath, then exhales audibly. "Steve, I'm sorry. Nancy said something to you too, didn't she?"

"Not exactly, but Greg did. How could you tell her something like that?"

"I just... I don't know! We were talking, and I was feeling so terrible, and it just kinda slipped out!"

"Well, Greg's disowned me, just so you know."

"Yeah, well, he gave me an earful too, you know."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah, told me I was disgusting. So that was a nice phone call."

"I don't understand how that just slips out."

"I don't hold things in, Steve. I'm not like you. I can't just forget things like that. That was a big deal for me!"

"Me too."

"Yeah, right."

"It was!"

Another exhale. "I don't know what you want me to say, Steve. I was stupid? I'm an idiot? Just tell me what you want me to say!"

"It's not that I want you to say something. I just think that, if you needed someone to talk to, that you could have found someone better than Nancy. You're almost a doctor! Isn't there someone-"

"Oh yeah! I'll just call one of my fellow practitioners and go, 'Hi! I just fucked my first cousin!' That'll go over really well!"

"Jenny-"

"I probably should'nt've told Nancy. I was vulnerable and needed someone to talk to, and I had no intention of telling her, but I told her about the whole fight with Bill, and then I told her that I slept with someone else-"

"And?"

"And she was making me feel better. It felt good to talk about it. And then, the next thing I knew, I was telling her the guy was you. I'm sorry if you can't understand that. I don't know what else you want me to say!"

"What did she say when you told her?"

"Nothing. Total silence. So I said, 'I am sure you think I'm disgusting now'. And she said 'no', but I know she did. I asked her not to say anything, but..."

"Yeah, Nancy's got a huge mouth. So are you still feeling better?"

"No."

"How do you feel about what happened?"

"I told you. The same way I always feel when it comes to us. Totally confused and conflicted. And ashamed of myself."

"I don't."

"I know. I thought maybe this could work with us, Steve, but this is way too weird."

"Why don't you stop letting everyone else think for you?"

"I'm NOT!"

"You didn't seem too disgusted by it that night."

"And now I do! And I can't believe you don't!"

"We've hooked up before."

"But we've never had sex! Big difference!!"

"Can we not fight? My brother already hates me; I don't want you hating me too."

Long pause. "I could never hate you."

I guess that makes me a sister....

Thursday, September 15, 2005 (cont'd)
Steve's office

"What an asshole," Dom says. "Good job handling it." He shakes my hand. "I'm just glad you didn't send that money again."

"Yeah, me too. Just make sure-"

"That I have a confirmation number from now on? I'm on it."

"Thanks, Dom." He walks out.

Heidi buzzes me. "Steve? Your brother is still on line 12."

Shit! He's been holding for at least 10 minutes. He must be really upset if he waited that long. Then again, this is Greg. A bee sting is a major issue for him.

"Go ahead, Heidi."

"Hey, Greg. Ever hear of voice mail?"

"Is it true, Steve?" He says, sharply. It sounds like he's out of breath.

"Is WHAT true?" I ask. But I know exactly what he's talking about. Somehow, Greg found out that I fucked Jenny. Let the drama begin.

"You know what I mean, Steve. Please tell me it's not true. Please tell me you aren't that sick."

There is still a chance that we aren't talking about the same thing. A SLIGHT chance, yes, but a chance. Plus, I'm not going to make this easy for him. If he's going to break my balls, he's going to work for it.

"Greg. Is WHAT true?!"

"Did you- sleep with Jennifer?"

"And who told you that?" I say, quickly.

"DID you?"

"Did anyone ever tell you you were lousy at minding your own business?"

"You did it. You DID it!" he says. I can almost see the deep sneer on his face.

"If you say so, man." I'm trying not to admit to it directly; this way, on the off chance that someone else besides Jenny blabbed about this, I could always say that I never actually confessed to it. Any by the way, if it was her, where the HELL did she get off telling someone about it? Was she stupid?

"Steve, she's our COUSIN! She's a blood relative! What the hell is the MATTER with you?"

Well, my cholesterol is a bit on the high side. And when I walk long distances, I get this weird pain in the third toe on my right foot...

"Greg, you have a wife and a family, and a job. Why don't you worry about your own life and stop trying to be the frigging hero. Can you do that?"

"Jenny TOLD Nancy! She TOLD her! SHE got us involved! And I'm gonna tell you something, Steve."

I really don't want to hear this.

"You know what, Greg? I'm awfully busy here. So when you calm down a little-"

"As far as I'm concerned, you're not my brother anymore."

...but I do know one about a nude girl and a salami...

Thursday, September 15, 2005, 2:40pm
Steve's office

"What do you mean, her tits are uneven?"

"Just what I said! They're uneven!" Paulie says. "The nipples don't line up! I'd show ya, but, you know, that's private. Plus, I can't show you over the phone."

"Yeah, 'cause you only saw my girlfriend with my dick in her mouth."

"Oooo! I almost forgot! Send me that picture, man!"

"Why, so you can whack off over it? Yuck!"

"No, I'm gonna frame that fucker and hang it in my bathroom."

"So when are you and your uneven-breasted girlfriend coming out to visit?"

Bonnie sticks her head in the door. "Steve, Bart is on two. He's very.... irate."

"About what?"

"Something about his territory?"

"Paulie, I gotta run."

"OK, take care, bitch!"

"This is Steve."

"Steve, it's Bart. And I just visited a prospect downtown here..." his voice is shaking.

"Yeah, and?"

"And they handed me a business card from some jackass named Gonzalez. Who's selling OUR insurance!"

"Independent agent, selling our policies?"

"Yeah! This is MY territory, Steve. It's MINE! No one else is supposed to be selling here!"

"He can take the deal if it's referred from someone in his territory, Bart."

"No, he CAN'T, Steve!"

"Fran is on line 3," Dom says from my doorway. "You know that wire we send to corporate twice a month?"

"Yeah."

"Well there's one due today, and he says it's not there."

I cover the receiver with my hand. "I'm on the phone here. Who sends those wires? Andy?"

"Yeah, it's Andy."

".....MY territory, MY zip codes, and YOU are letting any Tom Dick or Harry sell...."

"Did you ask him about it?"

"He emailed me that the wire was sent, but he said he was leaving for the day."

"You're supposed to be a leader," Bart is saying. "How can you allow this? These people are just running wild! They're selling wherever they WANT!"

"Did he give you a confirm number, Dom?"

"No, he never does!"

Dammit.

".....I found this one by accident! How many would I find if I went out and looked-"

Heidi peeks through the doorway, around Dom. "Steve?"

"Yes, Heidi."

"I know you're terribly busy and I hate to bother you, but your brother Greg is on line 12."

"Take a message."

"He says it's urgent. And he sounds upset."

"Unless somebody is dead, take a message. And critical condition doesn't count."

Her big eyes open wider for a second. "Of course, Steve."

"Bart, Bart!"

"Yes."

"Listen. I'm gonna have Dom call you to discuss. But Gonzalez can sell in your territory if he was referred by a client in his area, I promise you. Now I've got to run, we've got a red ball out here."

"A RED BALL?"

"You know, a really important issue?"

"Tell Dom to call me today!"

Yeah, and I'll make sure he's got plenty of Maxim issues on hand. This way, maybe he can fantasize about Jenny McCarthy while you blow your daily gasket.

"OK, man."

Bonnie, in my doorway again: "Fran from corporate is on line six. He says Dom put him on hold and never came back?" she says, glancing at Dom.

"Go ahead," I sigh.

"This guy's a real ass," Dom intones.

"This is Steve."

"Steve, where the hell is the wire? This is three million dollars we're waiting for here! And Dom's putting me on hold, never coming back...."

"Dom is here, Fran."

There's an awkward pause. "Hi, Dom."

"Hi, Fran. Fran, I got confirmation that Andy in our finance area sent that wire, as he usually does."

"What's the confirmation number?"

"He didn't leave one."

"Well, he didn't send it. It didn't go through, or he didn't send it, because I have nothing here. And I ALWAYS get confirmation that it went through, and I have NOTHING."

"We'll call Andy on his cell and find the confirm number. I'm sure he sent it-"

"There's no TIME! The wire rooms are going to close at 3! If our reserves are underfunded WE ARE SCREWED!"

"We'll call the bank, then-" Dom begins.

"Just send it again!" Fran yells.

"Wire it AGAIN? It's three million dollars!" I say.

"Which explains why we need it!"

"And which ALSO explains why I'm gonna have a foot-high stack of NSF's tomorrow morning!"

He sighs loudly; more of a growl, really. "Forgive me, Steve, but if it comes to you getting a $25 returned check fee from Poland Spring, and our shareholders finding out we have a financial issue, I think the choice is obvious."

"I'm calling the bank to confirm the wire."

"We don't have TIME to confirm it! Send it again!"

"If we have time to send it again, we have time to check it."

"So you check it, and while they are checking it, the wire room closes and we don't have our money."

"Fran, we'll call you back in five."

"It's ten of! Send it again!"

"We'll call you back in five," I say, firmly.

Heidi, back in the doorway: "Your brother is very upset. He says he wants to hold for you and he's refusing to hang up."

"What's his issue?"

"He says it's family-related. And he says you're not answering your cell phone."

Some people just can't take a fucking hint.

Shit. I wonder if it's about Jenny. But it couldn't be. Could it?

"Tell him it's gonna be a while."

We call the bank and get the confirmation number. It went throuh at 1:46pm.

2:54.

We call Fran. "You handle him," I tell Dom.

This is an assignment Dom won't mind, believe me. In fact, Dom is thrilled. Being able to call someone and tell him that we were right and he was wrong is a great feeling, especially with clueless morons in positions of authority like Fran. Besides, I delegate work any chance I get; the boss should not be mired in details.

I read in Newsweek where President Bush personally supervised the evacuation of a hospital after hurricane Rita. It was reported in a positive light, as in, "Look how he's attending to the details himself!" That was not good management on Bush's part; it was Bush doing the job himself, which is NOT leadership.

"Guyyys," Fran says. He sounds a lot calmer.

"Fran, we called the bank. The wire went through. I have the confirmation number," Dom says.

"You know, it's funny how things happen sometimes, " Fran laughs. "Our usual receptionist is out this week, and we got a temp to replace her. And the fax came in from the bank for the wire, like it normally does, but the temp saw "Fran" at the top, and she brought it down to Francine on the third floor, who runs the cafeteria! I got it on my desk and it had a little, uh, it had a little tomato sauce on it! Isn't that hilarious?"

"No," I say.