Sunday, August 6, 2006, 7:14am
Steve and Tim's house
It's an amazing dream.
Tim's long hair falls on my thighs like autumn leaves. She takes my cock between her lips with aching slowness, careful to shield her teeth, so that all I can feel is the soft insides of her mouth. She caresses me expertly with her tongue, and presses her fingers gently against my balls. The orgasm rises in me; my abdominal muscles tense and shudder. My God, is a dream going to make me cum?
"...like that baby?" she whispers, as she pulls my cock from its cozy warm spot and the full weight of her body lands on me.
My eyes open. This is how I wake up most days, with Tim on top of me, or, if I am lucky, with my boxers off and my dick already awake, showered, dressed, and halfway down the road to hard-onville.
Our bodies bump together and I feel her nakedness; I like that I don't have to wait for her to get undressed. Not 10 seconds later I am inside her, my hands clutching her naked ass, pulling myself more deeply inside her.
"Happy birthday, honey," she smiles when we are done, tying her bathrobe closed, and instantly I know that I will remember this for a long time: Not the sex, but her smile and the soft sincerity of her voice. God help me, this is actually beginning to resemble a healthy relationship.
I never realized how important weekends were for me, mental health-wise. When work was only "crazy", as opposed to "an endless parade of ballistic mayhem", I could kick back on Saturdays and Sundays, sleep until 9:00 without feeling guilty, and return to work on Monday ready to conquer whatever obstacles hindered my productivity. Now, I don't need an alarm clock anymore; I can't stay in bed past six, no matter what my calendar says.
"Why did you give your notice to Dan if you didn't have another job lined up?" Tim asks as I sit down at the kitchen table.
She's been talking to her mother. I heard the phone ring while I was in the shower, and it must have been her calling. That question had Diana written all over it, with its thinly disguised insinuation. It sounded like something Diana would say; I could close my eyes and see her saying it.
Tim and I have had this argument before. Her mother snaps into action any time she perceives a loss of control over Tim's life, planting poisonous seeds in her brain, as a reminder that Diana, not I, ruled Tim's every thought and deed long before I entered the picture.
I am never comfortable about having my competency questioned, least of all in my own house, by my girlfriend. She wouldn't lecture Tom Brady about football, nor Donald Trump about real estate; why doubt me, when I have achieved so much, so quickly? It's disrespectful of everything I have accomplished.
Normally I would rein in my temper, try to understand Tim's side of things, and calmly explain my point of view. But I have too much work on my mind to allow for anything but a 30-second conversation. And Tim should know better anyway.
"Do you do everything for your mother, Tim? Do you clean her toilets, and wipe the oatmeal off her chin?"
"What?" she sneers.
"Your mother called you, and put that little nugget in your head, and you came right back and threw it in my face."
"No she didn't."
"Who was on the phone just now?"
Nothing.
"Thought so. Do you trust me at all, Tim? Do you think I'm a complete idiot?"
"All I was saying--"
"You know how stressed out I've been. I can't sleep, my heart races all day long, I feel like I'm gonna drop dead any minute. I can't do this anymore, so I gave my notice. You know that!" I spit. The yelling only serves to coalesce my concerns, to encapsulate my anger into a single fiery pill that burns my innards like a Habanero pepper.
"I know!"
"So why the fuck are you asking me that question? Are you a fucking idiot, or do you just lack the guts to stand up to your asshole mother?"
"Don't you ever talk about my mother that way!"
"That's right, defend her, Tim, because you can't stand up to her."
"She just--I just, was asking you a question! If you didn't want to answer you didn't have to!"
"You shouldn't be asking. By asking you're doubting me. You're making me sound like an idiot who doesn't know enough to find a job before he quits!"
"I'm not doubting you!"
"No, your mother is, and you're just following orders."
"Stop saying that!"
"Stop doing it."
"Fuck you, Steve," she shreiks, flinging a spoon at me. She misses my head by inches, and the spoon clangs noisily against the far wall.
The noise startles us into silence for a moment. We stare at each other.
"Can we please talk about this calmly?" she asks.
"No, we can't talk about it at all. I don't need your mother's advice, and even if I did, I didn't ask for it. It's rude to interfere."
"It was just a question," she insists, lowering her voice as if to reduce the impact of her words.
"Bullshit, Tim. What if I walked up to my brother and asked him, 'Are you still a child molester?' Would he get angry? I would assume so. You can imply a lot with questions."
"I have a right to know the answer. And I have a right not to be screamed at for asking," she says, her eyes locked solidly on me. "You hate my mother so much that you can't even talk to me anymore."
"You have a right to know," I say. "You do. She doesn't, and this question came straight out of her mouth."
"Why do you hate her so much?" she asks, her voice rising.
"Because she interferes with our lives, and she doubts me, and she makes you doubt me."
"Well, I don't know if I can be with someone who thinks my mother is so horrible."
"I guess that elminates 90% of the world's population, then."
"I'm serious."
"Fine, get out then."
She looks at me.
"Oh, and thanks for treating me so nicely on my birthday."
