Saturday, September 30, 2006

What's up, bitches?

Now that I have started posting again, it is only fair to inform you that I will be away next week, and may not post at all until the weekend. Keep checking back for updates, though.

Oh, and Stevo now has a YouTube channel! Check out the MildlyUnwell Network and enjoy the videos. I am a fan of off-the-wall stuff, like Randy Johnson killing a bird with a fastball, as well as eye-popping hotties such as the mid-90's Jennifer Love Hewitt. I hope to make my channel the most comprehensive online combo of hot and amazing.

I will start making my own vids eventually, but in the meantime, if you have a video you would like posted, please send it to me and I'll put it out there!

Have a great week and we will chat soon...


Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Without a trace

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, 2:57 (continued)
Steve's office

I dial Bonnie's cell. Voice mail.

"Heidi, have you seen Bonnie?"

She looks suspiciously from side to side, like a spy giving out classified information.

"She ran out of here crying," she whispers. "I asked her what was wrong and she didn't answer. What do you think is going on?"

"That's what I want to know."

"She was due for a raise. I wonder if she didn't get it."

That's nonsense. I am Bonnie's supervisor, and her review isn't for another month. I open my mouth to tell Heidi when I think the better of it. This isn't Heidi's business, but she is damn good at prying information out of people.

"Trust me, it's not about a raise, Heidi."

"So she got one?"


"Okay, okay, I'll let you know if she calls in," she smiles.

I sit in Bonnie's chair and flip through her caller ID numbers. The last one is from a "Pine Brook Veterinary".

Bonnie's husband Mitch died four or five years ago, and her son lives out of state. The only company she has is her cat, Ralphie. She grew more attached to him after Mitch died; I remember one afternoon last December, when she burst grinningly into my office, showing me all the cat toys she had bought to put under the tree for him. That cat was her only link to Mitch; I hope nothing happened.

I dial the vet's number. "Oh. Ohhh, yeah, that was me who called her," says the woman on the other end. "Is she okay?"

"What happened to Ralphie?"

"Sometimes we sedate cats when we clean their teeth. Something went wrong and... he didn't wake up."

"He didn't wake up?"

"It happens."

A red light flashes on Bonnie's phone console. "Steve", the button label says. This is where most of my calls stop before being put through to me. Every time I lean to the left and look out my door, Bonnie's got the phone to her ear. She probably handles at least 30 calls a day for me, calls that I don't have to take because Bonnie knows the answers. I get tons of work done every day, and Bonnie is a huge reason I am able to do so. What would I ever do without her? In fact, what am I going to do today?

Another red light flashes, and the two orbs blink in perfect unison, like a well-rehearsed dance routine.

Screening my own calls defeats the purpose; the whole idea is that someone else speaks to the callers, so I don't have to stop what I am doing. I press the button marked "night", which will immediately route all calls to the automated attendant. The two lights go out.

I return to my desk. Da-dum! Da-dum! Da-dum! goes my inbox. I've been getting slammed with emails and phone calls all day about a contract I'm working on. We are hiring a firm to process our COBRA (insurance for terminated employees), and our HR director wanted the contracts signed today. We are on our 10th or 11th draft, and we aren't nearly done--

"Just say thank you," Peg shouts from outside my door. "Just say thank you!"

"I'll do no such thing," Jared shoots back, his words muffled slightly, as if passing through clenched teeth.

Why are they fighting outside my door? What are they doing there?

Da-dum! goes my appointment reminder. "3:00, Peg and Jared", it says. Bonnie always warns me 15 minutes in advance of my pending appointments, so I can prepare. Obviously, that didn't happen today.

"Steve, we need you! Peggy and Jared are screaming at each other in the hall!" Heidi says.

Da-dum! Goes my inbox, and I click on my inbox, expecting to see 30 or 40 new emails.

One hundred eighty-six.

It's going to take me hours to clear these emails. If I have my raggedy ass under the covers by midnight, it will be a huge victory.


The meeting goes poorly. Peg and Jared shout each other down repeatedly, and it's growing harder to calm them. I had hoped not to have to involve HR, but--

"Steve, if you can't resolve this properly, I'm gonna have to leave the firm," Jared says, his cheeks flushed, his eyebrows knit angrily.

"Good. Go," Peg shouts, and Jared raises his voice in reply.

Da-dum! goes message number 187.

My cell phone rings; it's the HR director, no doubt needing an update on the COBRA contract.

No matter how hard I work, the best I can manage is to tread water. It's demoralizing.

Two years ago, I was a leader. I improved processes, I helped people, and I woke up every morning eager to tackle whatever obstacles were in my way. Now, I referree arguments and make sure our corporate ass is covered. I have grown to hate my job.


I call Tim.

"What do you mean, you're thinking of quitting?" she asks.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Just another tricky day for you me

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, 10:15am
Steve's office

"I need to talk to you," Peggy from finance barks, squeezing my door frame with her right hand, as if to keep from being pulled away.

I have an open door policy. In my two years at this job, I don't think I've ever refused to meet with anyone. Of course, that does not mean that you can just barge in whenever you want; I organize my day just like everyone else does, and interruptions throw me off schedule.

Part of Bonnie's job is to be my gatekeeper, to redirect people like Peggy so I can stay on track. It's not easy. Everyone's got an emergency; every problem is life or death, and some people aren't polite about it. Sure, Bonnie takes coffee breaks, and uses the bathroom, but she's good about telling me before she leaves her desk--and she hasn't. So how did Peggy get past her?

There's no way I'm going to ask her what the problem is. If I do that, she'll break out the violin and give me the saddest sob story you've ever heard, and I'll be a cold-hearted bastard if I dismiss her. The trick is to deflect her gently, to subtely remind her of the rules.

"Peg, I'm actually right in the middle of a contract negotiation. Why don't you talk to Bonnie and tell her I'd like her to set up a meeting for this afternoon?"

"I'm gonna walk right outta here," she says, her voice quivering. "He's driving me crazy! I can't take it anymore! I'm gonna look for another job!"

So much for redirecting her. Peg is overly emotional at times, but she does seem very upset. I sure wish I knew where the hell Bonnie was.

"Who is driving you crazy?"

"Jared! He's waiting for me to balance a file and he keeps calling me every five minutes to see if I'm done. I have other work to do, Steve! He's always doing that. Why does he keep bothering me? He's not my supervisor--"

Jared works in our payroll department. He is an amazing worker. He'll do whatever project they throw at him, no matter how early he has to come in or how late he has to stay. When he took a week's vacation, we required two full time employees to produce the same amount of work.

The problem is, he is also a head case. He walks around the office singing gospel songs, argues loudly with anyone who disagrees with him, and regularly sends out rambling, stream-of-consciousness emails complaining bitterly about his working conditions--normally copying the CEO, the VP of Human Resources, me, and anyone else he can think of.

After such a tirade, I'll call him into my office, and he'll smile and tell me not to worry about it. "I was just having a bad day," he'll tell me.

"I know he can be tough to work with--"

"So do something about it, Steve!"

"Peg, I really need you to set up an appointment with Bonnie."

"She's not there!"

My cell phone rings. Maybe Bonnie had an emergency and had to leave; I'll bet this is her. I pick it up.

"Steve, I need to talk to you right away. That woman is going to be the death of me! May she burn in hell! God fogive me," Jared shouts, so loudly that I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear.

Bad move.

"Is that him?!" yells Peggy.

"Is Peggy in there with you?" Jared squeals. "What is she doing there?"

"I was in here first," Peggy says. "You can call him back later, because I came in here first."

Da-dum, goes my email alert. That will be from legal; I was supposed to have the contract reviewed two hours ago.

I wish I could talk to these two together; it would make things easier.

Wait a minute--I can!

I hit the speaker button and place my cell phone on the desk. "Everyone take a deep breath. Enough is enough," I say, slowly. They fall silent, and it looks like things are under control. For now.

"We're not going to resolve all of this right now," I continue. "But Jared, I assume you are waiting for the deposits to be released so you can post the tax payments."

"Right," he says.

"When are the taxes due?"

"Steve, I don't want to wait until the last minute--"

"Friday!" Peggy shouts, so loudly that her voice reverberates. "We don't even have to release them until tomorrow!"

"If we wait until the very last second and then something goes wrong--" Jared shoots back.

"Enough!" The room goes silent.

"Peg, how much time do you need to balance the file?"

"It will be done before I go to lunch at noon."

"Jared, if you don't receive confirmation by 1:00, call me. Not her. Okay?"

"Okay, Steve."

I swing around in my chair and check my calendar. "I want both of you in here at 3:00 today to discuss what's going on between you two."

"Steve, he's constantly-"

"Three O'clock, Peg."

I wonder where the hell Bonnie is.


Monday, September 18, 2006

Fighting fair

Saturday, July 1, 2006
Steve and Tim's house

The phone rings. It's Dom.

"Hey honey!" Tim says, with a flirty lilt. She chats with him for a few minutes before holding the phone out to me.

"Is your girlfriend tired of you yet?" Dom asks before we hang up. "Tell her she knows where to find me."

"Do you have to call him 'honey'?" I ask Tim later.

"I call everyone 'honey'. I call Lila 'honey'!"

"That's a nice thought."

"Does it make you mad?"

"You had sex with him, Tim."

"You had sex with my friend right in front of me. Should I be jealous?" she spits, her voice rising sharply.

The threesome might have been a mistake. It was fun, yes, but Tim brings it up every once in a while, and not in a good way. She'll ask me why guys like that sort of thing so much, or if it bothers me that it happened.

"If you didn't want to do it--" I say, annoyed.

"I'm not saying I didn't want to do it!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I trust you, but you still don't trust me!" she shouts.

"What does that mean, Tim? I moved you into my house. You have keys to my car. You know my ATM PIN number. What are you talking about?"

"You trust me with your money, because you know I don't care about it. You don't trust me to be faithful."

"I just don't like you flirting right in front of me. It's insulting!"

"Oh and you don't flirt with everyone!"


Tim has taught me a lot about what she calls "fair fighting". She says it is normal to have fights and that fights are healthy, but there should be rules. At first, I thought it was ridiculous; who wants to be running down a list of do's and don'ts when you're screaming at each other? But actually, it is easier than I thought.

A few of the fighting rules we follow:

1. No name-calling
2. Be specific
3. No physical fighting
4. Use "I" statements rather than "you" statements when you can
5. After the fight is over, each person thinks of one thing they can do to avoid similar disagreements in the future

It may seem funny, but I am actually better at following the rules than she is. Tim usually ends up calling me a fucking asshole and throwing shoes at me, while I sit there waiting for her to calm down.

I may be better at fighting, but Tim is better at making up. No matter how angry she made me, she just sits in my lap, whispers "I'm sorry" in my ear, and I turn to mush.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't question my friendliness towards Dom or anyone else," she says. "I stopped seeing him to be with you, I moved in with you. Sometimes I feel like you don't trust me."

"I do trust you. But I also remember when you were with Dom, and you used to flirt with me right in front of him."

"Was I living with him? Was I asking to have a baby with him or get married?"

Yeah, she's brought those topics up before, but that's another story.


"Steve, I love you. So much. Please trust me."

My insides melt, and no matter how cynical I am, I can't resist her pull.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

"No, I also want my mix tapes back!"

Sunday, March 21, 1993, 8:45am
Steve and Paulie's apartment

The phone rings.

"I thought you were calling me after your gig last night," Renee says.

I had anticipated the question and was ready for it. "It got late," I reply immediately. The lie was efforless, natural.

"Yeah right," she chuckles. She's just teasing, but doesn't realize how right she is. "I'm sure you and Dennis hooked up."

"No, we're not gay, thank you."

She laughs out loud, and it strikes me how the flawless the tactic is: I have now used it twice in less than 12 hours! I made a joke, and it's almost as if she forgot all about what her concern was.

"Did you get any phone numbers?" So much for laughing it off.

Nope, no phone numbers. Fucked a gorgeous 20-year-old though. But the phone number count was a big zero.

"I was there for work, Renee."

"I know."


Friday, April 23, 1993, 7:30pm
Renee's apartment

"What's wrong?" I ask. "You've been acting strange all night."

"I've been--"

"You've been what?"

"I've been thinking."

"About what?"

She sits up straight in her chair and exhales heavily. I look at her; she avoids eye contact, and I know right away she's dumping me.

"Steve, you've been so sweet to me--"

"Say it, Renee."

"It's just that, and this isn't about you at all..."

I sit silently, careful not to avert my eyes. I'm not trying to make this easy for her; if she's going to break up with me, she's going to have to work for it.

"The plan has always been that I'm gonna marry a Jew, Steve, and you aren't a Jew. We're graduating in a week, and I'm moving back home, so--"

I keep staring, emotionless. I could throw in an "I understand" or a "This is totally unexpected", but I don't want to help her. I want to hear what is truly on her mind.

"Why, I mean, um, why, like, prolong it?"

"Why prolong it?" I retort. "Is it a disease, Renee?"

"Steve, you know I didn't mean it like that."

"You're a coward, Renee."

"How am I a coward?"

"You're not a Jew. Not a true one, anyway. When's the last time you've been to temple?"

"Totally irrelevant," she spits, but her cheeks have flushed and she's breathing just a bit heavier then usual.

"Never mind what your parents want. Never mind what your bubbe and zade want. What do you want?"

"I just told you," she says, with a stiff jaw, and I almost believe her. Almost.

"I think you don't give a shit about religion. I think you want to find someone you love and get married, and I think religion is the farthest thing from your mind."


"I don't think you care whether or not your kids are running around with little yarmulkes on their heads. I bet you think keeping kosher is the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard of. I bet you think it's stupid. I bet you think all religion is stupid. Don't you?"

She stares at me, so still that she might as well be a cardboard cutout.

"I'm gonna meet someone else, Renee, and one day I'll get married, and I'll be really, truly happy. And you know what? I won't give a FUCK if she's Jewish or not. I feel sorry for you. I actually feel sorry."

"Is that all, Steve?"

We had been together for months, most of them really happy. When I looked back, all I could remember was laughter and passion. I could have forgiven her, but as far as I was concerned, she didn't deserve it. She had the freedom to make whatever choice she wanted to, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. But I sure as shit was not going to reward her selfish stupidity with a hug and a warm goodbye. Fuck her.

Without another word, I turned my back and walked out of her life forever.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Closing out some ass

"Is that your girlfriend?" Kiersten asks, abruptly.

I hit the stop button too quickly; I looked like I had something to hide, and now she was on to me. Maybe this was how it was meant to happen. Maybe I was supposed to tell Kiersten I was with Renee, then bid her goodnight with a firm handshake, and go talk to Renee about our future together. At that point, I had blown it with Kiersten anyway.

Not so fast, I think.

Paulie lived in the apartment too. A girl could just as easily have been calling him as me. But I couldn't look suspicious; that would give me away.

"None of my girlfriends have my number," I smirk, and immediately know it was a home run. I didn't deny anything, didn't get defensive. It was perfect!

She laughs and changes the subject. Was that it? Wasn't she going to ask who it was?

Evidently not.

"Can I use your bathroom?" she asks.

"As long as you leave the door open," I smile.

I'm on the couch when she comes out, with the TV set to the preview channel. No sense in letting her get distracted, you know.

She sits next to me, and I put my arm around her. I behold her face for a brief second before we kiss; her skin is pure, flawless alabaster, and her eyes are shimmering sapphires.

I reach around and lower her zipper; her party dress falls away, exposing a beige demi bra, overflowing with her voluptuous breasts.

The thrill is palpable, rising through my insides like hot steam. This was actually going to happen!

My heart gallops as she unhooks her bra and her tits tumble out, round and curvy, much bigger than Renee's. I stare as she slides her panties down, and I am awed by her sexiness; it's surreal, as if I'm watching a movie.

A blow job would have been amazing, but I was sure it wouldn't happen. Girls like Kiersten didn't suck dick. Did they?

She kneels in front of me, and as she takes it into her mouth, I am in full sensory overload, my hands shaking, my breathing choppy.

She sucks me to within an inch of coming and I instinctively pull away from her, my cock soaked in spit, hot and throbbing. I pick her up and sling her over my shoulder like a caveman would, carrying her to my bed as she giggles and runs her fingertips lightly across my back.

I penetrate her slowly, running my eyes up and down her body like a jeweler searching a diamond for a flaw that isn't there.

It was the best sex I had ever experienced, hot and slow, with a climax like a volcanic eruption. Maybe I was lost in the moment, but I started thinking of Kiersten like a girlfriend, like someone who I could get to know, form a bond with. She was beautiful, and the sex was great, so why not?


I woke to the rapidly fading sound of a car engine, and got to the window just in time to see the cab moving out of sight.

Maybe she had to get to work tomorrow, I told myself. Funny she didn't leave me a note, or wake me to say she had to go. But I could always call her--

My pockets were empty. I never got her number! Well, I could look her up...

...that was, if I had her last name. I didn't.

Holy shit. I was never going to see her again.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

RIP Croc Hunter

Like everyone else, I am shocked and saddened by the death of Steve Irwin, the Croc Hunter. I was never much of an animal guy, but he made me want to be one.

From one Steve to another, I'll miss you, mate.


Girls like Kiersten were meant to fuck. Their bodies were built for it, the way waterbeds were built for sleeping. Every moment she roamed the Earth without a dick in her was a complete waste.

Plenty of women were beautiful; Kiersten was sexy. She was fuckable. In the short time I had known her, her face had registered happiness, anger, disappointment, jealousy. She was unafraid to express emotion, even in the presence of someone she didn't know. Sure, maybe she had hangups, but evidently none of them had turned her into a frozen block of bitchiness.

Of course, I was with Renee. But, assuming I hooked up with Kiersten, who would have been hurt? Assuming that I was safe, and assuming that we didn't tell anyone, what damage would I have done?

I was supposed to feel guilt. Performing that most intimate of acts with Renee was supposed to be special. It was supposed to mean something, and doing it with someone else was supposed to cheapen it somehow. That was supposed to bother me, but it didn't.

I went over the idea in my mind, examined it painstakingly, like a car that failed to start for no apparent reason. Surely, some switch would go off at any moment, some floodgate would open and I'd be deluged with self-loathing for even considering something so despicable. It never happened.

"Can you... t-turn this up?" Kiersten stammers, with a glassy-eyed smile.

She liked loud music, just like I did. She'd had a few too many cosmopolitans and she was tipsy, just like anyone else would be. She was definitely hot, but what was so intimidating about her? Why on Earth shouldn't I talk to her, just to see what would happen? What was she going to do, laugh at me? So what? I was busy anyway, and could dismiss her easily enough.

She was smaller than me, and not just in the physical sense. I was superior to her. I could try my luck, and if things didn't work out, maybe I'd find someone else. In a worst-case scenario, I'd find Renee, and tear those panties right off her muscular little ass. I couldn't lose!

"Turn it up? I guess so," I smile.


Suddenly I was ten feet tall. I was bulletproof. I could lift Humvees with my pinky finger and see through four feet of solid concrete. She could have dismissed me, or ripped off her party dress and mounted me right there in front of everyone; it no longer mattered. My self-confidence had everything to do with me, and nothing to do with her.

"Are you coming tonight?" I hear myself say. There was no forethought, no plan. The words spilled out of me, like cold water from the waitstaff's steel pitchers.

"To what?"

"We're going to the Muddy Hen for drinks after the party tonight."

No, "we" weren't. There was no "we". Dennis was in pain and was probably going to go home to crash, and I didn't know anyone at the party.

"I love that place!"

"See you there, then," I smile, and immediately make myself look busy searching for a CD.

She stands uneasily for a moment, taking a step back, then forward, before finally walking away.

I wonder if she'll show up.


Sunday, March 21, 1993, 1:30am
The Muddy Hen

"There's no fucking way this chick is showing up, Steverino," Dennis says.

"Well, like I said, she was--"

"Out of your league?"

"She was digging me, bro."

"So where is she then?" he smirks, then turns and winds his way through the crowd to the bar.

Two hands cover my eyes from behind. "Cut it out, asshole," I laugh. What the hell was wrong with Dennis, anyway? Only chicks did that.

Only chicks did that!

I reach up. The hands are unmistakably female, with their soft skin and long nails. I turn around.

"Asshole?" Kiersten giggles.

I start to explain, then stop myself. She's smaller than me.

"It's a term of endearment," I laugh.

"Great show tonight. You guys rocked," she says, patting a hand on my chest and leaving it there for a long moment.

"Appreciate that."

"We were just driving by and decided to stop in," Kiersten says.

"She came to see you," a buck-toothed brunette says. Damn, she was ugly. "She came to hook up with you."

"Yeah, she totally wants you," another girl says. It sounded sarcastic. Was she joking? Girls didn't say things like that to me!

"The line forms to the left," I smile, and they giggle in unison.


Paramedics barge through the front door and sprint for the rest room, stretcher in tow. Some lush probably passed out on the toilet.

"Where's your friend?" Kiersten says. "Didn't he go for beers, like, 20 minutes ago?"

I freeze. It must be Dennis who needs the ambulance. The line at the bar was short; he should have been back by now.

The paramedics rush by, and sure enough, I see Dennis's cast-clad arm hanging over the side of the stretcher.

"That's him!" I shout, and we bolt out into the frigid spring air.

"What's wrong?" I yell over the rumble of the ambulance's engine.

"Slipped on some piss and landed on my bad arm," he moans. "Thanks for helping, bro."

Kiersten chuckles.

Again I resist the impulse to explain. To do so would imply that he deserves an explanation.

"I'll see ya tomorrow, bro. I'll come out first thing in the morning. Well, maybe not first thing," I smile, sliding my arm around Kiersten's waist. She chuckles again.

"Fuckin' sellout, bro..." he mumbles.

"Aww, are you scared, Dennis? Hey, can you get this guy a teddy bear?" I ask an EMT.


March 21, 1993, 2:35am
Steve and Paulie's apartment

I'm not used to the sound of high heels against my hardwood floor, and her perfume suddenly overwhelms me, like loud music in a tiny closet. "I can't believe I'm hooking up with you," she grins, smiling coyly at the floor.

"Yeah, I can't believe you seduced me," I laugh.

"What?" she smiles.

I press the "play" button on my answering machine and immediately regret it, even before hearing Renee's voice.

"Hey babe, it's me--"

I hit "stop". It would be a damn shame to miss out on this now. It was a sure thing...