"That could be us"

Monday, December 18, 2006, 2:03am
Steve and Tim's house

"....a girl!" Chris says on the phone, though I can barely hear him through the fog of sleep.

"Huh?"

"It's a girl!" he shouts again, his voice quivering. "I'm a father!"

Wow, cool. Have you told your girlfriend yet?

St. Luke's Hospital, maternity ward
3:30pm

Tim holds the baby expertly, supporting her tiny head in the crook of her elbow, gently stroking her wispy hair. "Hi, Veronica," she purrs. "I hope uncle Steve is gonna hold you and not be a big chicken!"

"I held MacKenzie when she was born."

"Here, take her, so I can get your picture!" she smiles.

**********

Steve and Tim's house, 7:30pm

"You haven't said two words all night, Tim."

"Are we ever gonna have a baby?"

"Are we really having this conversation again?"

"No, I'm serious."

"So am I!"

"Just tell me. What are your--intentions with me?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Tim!"

"Am I someone you would ever consider marrying?"

I have no idea where this is coming from. I've told her a million times that--

That's not true. I've never actually come out and said that I intend to marry her and start a family together. Sure, I've joked about what it will be like after we're married for 20 years, but that's hardly how she needs to hear it.

We've lived together for over a year, and endured some drama: Her mother almost breaking us up, my father almost dying, the months of agony as I searched desperately for a new job. We were both there at the end of each day, making it bearable.

The closest I've come to long-term commitment is telling Tim about my "one-year rule": We should live together for at least a year before discussing marriage, then be married for at least a year before discussing children. Neither of us is going anywhere; why rush?

"Tim, of course I want to be with you."

"Because if I'm wasting my time with you--"

My first impulse is to raise my voice, because it feels like she is not hearing me. But there is something different about Tim today; it almost seems like she's doubting the relationship all of a sudden. But why would she be doing that?

It must be the baby. Seeing Veronica reminded her that motherhood is something she really wants, and that she wants it with me.

"Don't you remember what we talked about, the one-year rule?"

"You're old enough. I'm old enough. We have money. We have a nice house--"

"Tim, you're 25."

"Did you see them? Your brother and his wife? How happy they were?"

"Of course I did!"

"That could be us!" she says, pleadingly, her voice sinking to a whisper.

Thursday, December 21, 2006, 12:15pm
Steve's office

"Are you coming home on time?" Tim asks.

"Um, yeah."

"Please don't be late?" she pouts.

"You okay?"

"I'm feeling kinda run down. I want your company. Is that too much for a girlfriend to ask?"

"Tim," I laugh.

"Please?"

8:00pm

"Come lay down next to me."

"You feel warm," I say, kissing her forehead.

"I'm fine, just hold me. And can you turn that TV down?"

I wake up midway through the 10:00 news with Tim dozing next to me, her arms still gripping my shoulders, our noses almost touching.

Let's see: She's acting clingy, she's tired and sluggish, she's questioning me about our future, and gauging my interest in having a baby.

I think she's pregnant.

From an FOS (Friend of Steve)

Hey Guys,

This is the first time that Steve has ever mentioned anything about the book deal so I'll give you a little insight. I've been reading Steve's blog since he was interviewed by a prominent adult entertainment blogger and journalist. I've been a devoted fan and champion of his work for the last three years. I work in development at a large production company in Hollywood and Steve's unpublished manuscript is in active consideration at some of the largest literary agencies in the world. I've spoken to him many times on the phone, heard his voice, have experienced the personality and wit that you have all read about in person through many conversations. Even though I've never met him, there's not a doubt in my mind that these stories are lifted from his own experiences.

It's funny that many of you have commented that Steve sounds like Carrie from Sex in the City. We've been marketing his book as exactly that: The Men's Sex in the City. In fact, we're even shopping it to HBO. Keep reading and we'll let you know as things progress.

Loyal reader,
Mr. Hollywood.

Stevo vs. James Frey

A couple of you wrote me to bust my balls about my haughty claims of literary superiority over James Frey. Who's better? You tell me.

One of these passages was written by James Frey; the other is my rewrite. Tell me which one you like better , and I'll let you know which one was mine!

Writer A
I start walking toward the elevator, know that there are things with Leonard that I should not question. He pushes the button and the elevator arrives and we go down walk through the lobby leave the hotel go outside. It's dark. It's cold. The wind. We start walking. Five minutes later we're at the steakhouse. We walk through a set of large, unmarked oak doors. It's dark, the walls are wood, the carpet thick. It smells strongly of steak and cigars. I take a deep breath, we walk through a short hall to a reception stand. There is a man in a tuxedo behind the stand he steps around and greets Leonard calls him Sir and shakes his hand. Leonard introduces the man to me and we shake hands and the man says pleasure to meet you, Sir, which makes me laugh.

Writer B
I inhale sharply and turn to confront Leonard, and at the last moment think the better of it. Once he's got his mind made up, it's a waste of time. We walk to the steakhouse, the wind pushing against us like an invisible hand; instead of talking, we avert our eyes and muse at the round pools of white from the streetlights.

I push open the heavy oak doors and welcome the warmth of the steakhouse, savoring the comfortable air despite the cigar smell. A tuxedoed man hops around his podium to greet us, smiling cartoonishly.

I love how restaurant hosts act so happy to see people. What, did he think no one was going to show up for dinner today? Or do we just resemble his long-lost uncles?

But he really gives himself away when he calls me "sir", despite my muddy pant-legs and tattered windbreaker, which is not at all suited for the brutish cold. I laugh silently into my collar.

Good day, and welcome to post #400

It's been well over two years, three quarters of a million site visits, and now, 400 posts. Thanks for making this little ol' web page so much fun for me. Here's to the next 400!

It's funny to me how many comments I still get about the Vaseline lip therapy post. The post is two and a half years old, people! It's absolutely ridiculous to have to talk about this again, but if it keeps coming up...

Vaseline lip therapy is the same thing as regular Vaseline, and yeah, Vaseline can be used as lube. In fact, back in the day, before Astroglide came along, that was pretty much the only option. I never got what was so hard to believe about me using it for anal.

Sometimes I get the impression that people have stopped thinking about it, and are just parroting what they have heard others say. "It must be ridiculous, because I heard someone else say it was!"

Go back and read it again. Stop repeating what you hear and ask yourself what is so hard to believe about it. I'm only going to answer the same question so many times before I tell you to fuck off.

Oh, and as a word to the wise, when you are using lube, you only need a small amount on the tip. Lube should be used sparingly, just to make penetration easier. You're not buttering an ear of corn, for Christ's sake!

But I digress.

And now, for the other question that I always get. Namely, "Is this stuff real?"

From time to time, I have to remind readers that I change names, dates, times, places, and circumstances to protect my anonymity, and to make the story flow better. Do I make some things up? Sure.

I'm not trying to convince you that I'm a legendary chick magnet, or the corporate version of Michael Jordan. That was never the point. Go back and read the 399 posts before this one: Do I ever insist that this is all 100%, unequivocally, real?

And by the way, what, exactly, in this blog is so hard to believe? That I had sex with a few girls? That I got a promotion and drove a nice car? What, these things don't happen in real life?

Of course they do, but that does not stop readers from savaging me as a "liar". Does it bother me? Yeah, in a way, because they seem oblivious to what I am trying to do.

I blog to entertain you. Read it, and have fun. Hopefully, it'll take your mind off your high credit card balance or your psychopathic boss for a few minutes before you have to get back to work. That's all.

L. Ron Hubbard was a horrible human being, so twisted that his own son compared him to Adolf Hitler. But he did say one interesting thing: "If it isn't true for you, it isn't true." If you think I'm lying, go with it. Assume this is all fiction. Whatever else one can say about me, I am a good writer. The story and the characters are strong enough to hold readers' attention, true or not. When the book based on this blog finally gets published, it will be sold as fiction. Those who give it a chance will love it from the start, and it will be irrelevant what shelf they pulled it from at Barnes & Noble.

There are less able writers (James Frey and Tucker Max come immediately to mind) who vehemently insist (or, in Frey's case, insisted) that every word they utter is gospel truth. In my opinion, they do so because their stories lack a certain appeal, and they feel compelled to add that magic tagline of, "...and it's all 100% true!" for the extra spark of interest that the story cannot generate on its own. I will never stoop to that; when it comes to writing skill, neither of them is fit to sniff my boxers.

So are these stories true or not?

Let's put it this way: You wouldn't write a cookbook if you didn't know how to cook. Yes, I am a writer, and I have turned my life into a story. Life doesn't unfold the way a book does, and the writer in me knows how to make it fit, so that's what I do. Put your cynicism and personal issues aside and read what I have to say. Listen to my inner thoughts. If you do, you will feel a genuineness that can't be faked.

If you read it, you can assume that something like it happened to me at some point in my life. If sex and work success are that foreign to you, you should stop blog-reading and leave the house once in a while.

A lot of you readers are loyal fans and great friends. A lot of you are also immature imbeciles. It's cliche to say so, but if you don't like what I am doing here for any reason, do me a favor: Leave and don't come back.

And as I mentioned recently, if I were really trying to pump myself up, why on Earth would I admit to cracking under the pressure and quitting my job, probably doing long-term career damage? Why would I admit to getting shot down by girls and dating sometimes weird or less-than-beautiful ones? Why would I admit to so many imperfections?

But again, ultimately your truth is determined by you, and whatever it is you should embrace it.

Check back soon, and go Pats!!

Love,
Stevo

Stevo is who we thought he was

Transcript of the recent press conference with Denise Green, president of the Steve Caruso Monogamy Foundation.

DENISE: "I would like to take this opportunity to announce our full support for Steve during this time of turmoil--"

REPORTER: "Turmoil? Denise, he cheated on his girlfriend of over one year!"

DENISE: "Yes, but--"

REPORTER: "Does it surprise you? Didn't it seem like Steve had matured?"

D: "Please, let me--"

R: "Are you concerned that a monogamy foundation like yours is going to suffer political damage for supporting an unapologetic womanizer like Steve?"

D: "No, because--"

R: "No? But they were living together! They were talking marriage and children! And then he just goes off and curls toes with some psycho nutbag!"

D: "Fine. Fine! You know what? Fine.

"Stevo is who we thought he was. We've all read the blog; we know what he's capable of. I mean, who the hell fucks his first cousin like it's bullshit. Bullshit!

"Everything was fine. He dated Stephanie for the better part of a year, and then he kissed Tim, but he told Stephanie about it, and then he cheated on Tim--he is who we thought he was!

"Now." [Slaps microphone violently] "You wanna throw your panties at him? Go ahead and throw your panties at his ass. But he is who we thought he was! And he screwed us in the end!"

[Storms off, stage right]

Not getting the joke?

Dichotomy

"Do you want a real tree this year, or a fake one?" Tim asks.

"Fake ones make a lot more sense, but I've never had one, ever."

"We'll figure it out. Oh, and do you want our picture on the Christmas cards this year?"

"Our picture?" I say, as I carry a box of decorations down the attic stairs.

"Last year, we signed both our names to the Christmas cards, but we had only been dating a little while, and some couples put their picture on their cards. Until they have a baby, then they put the kid's picture on the card--"

"Are we back on the baby thing again, Tim?"

"No! I'm just saying!"

"Yeah, we can do the picture, I guess."

"Is that extra extension cord in here?" Tim asks, pointing to the hallway closet. She turns the doorknob...

...Krista's apartment door opens. "What took you so long?" she smiles.

Krista's psychosis has not affected her physically, at least not yet. Her teeth are straight out of a dentist's "after" picture, and her thick lips, freshly coated in dusty pink, frame them flawlessly.

I am staring. "Are you coming in?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"You want a glass of wine?"

"I have to go back to work."

"I was just asking." She gets defensive quickly, and I'm careful never to say "I'm sorry" when she does. She's insecure; she would doubt the sincerety of the apology, and a fight would ensue.

"I have to ask you something," I grin.

"What?" she smiles back, as she walks over and straddles my lap with her dainty thighs, chewing a piece of red licorice. I catch a glimpse of her navel under her scoop-neck t-shirt; her short skirt rides up.

"Are you wearing red or pink today?"

"Why don't you look and find out?"

I slide my hand across her back, and feel nothing but spine. My cock, suddenly stiff, is bent at a crazy angle under her weight, and with the adrenaline that's flowing, I can barely feel it.

"Trick question, huh?" I say. "I bet you're not wearing panties either."

I pull up her skirt, exposing her cleanly-shaved pussy, and her soft mouth plunges against my neck. We stare for a brief moment and then we are clutching at each others' clothes, pulling at buttons and zippers with feverish speed.

The phone rings.

"That's my mother."

"That's nice," I say in between kisses.

"She's gonna keep calling until I answer..."

"...can you get that?" Tim calls from atop her stepstool, as she places the star on the tree.

"What's all that commotion in the background?" Tim's mother says.

"What commotion? We're decorating. Hold on, I'll get Tim."

"I don't want to talk to Tim, I want to talk to you."

"About?"

"Are you proposing this Christmas?"

"What? No, Diana!"

"You wouldn't tell me if you were. I just want you to know it's a bad idea."

"Thanks for the tip."

"You're doing really wonderfully together. There's plenty of time to get married--"

"Diana, like I said--"

"Of course. You're not thinking of it. Then Christmas comes and the Hope Diamond will be under the tree, and I'll get this giddy phone call at 7:30am. 'Mom, we're getting married!'" she says, in a mock falsetto.

"Diana. You are way off base here. Words cannot express how far off you are. So--"

"Gimme that," Tim shouts, grabbing the phone.

"Mom, I'm sick of you interfering," she shouts. "Just..."

"...leave me alone, mom!" Krista yells into the receiver. "I'll call you later!"

She bangs the phone down so hard that it dings.

Her scowl melts and she lays down under me, sliding off the last of her clothing, a half-length cotton sock. I pause over her, my heart throbbing, my breaths quick and choppy.

"You want it don't you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Say pretty please."

"Steve--"

"Say pretty fucking please!"

"Pretty please fuck me."

"Again."

"Pretty please fuck me with your big hard dick."

I slip into her before she's done saying it. Her hands clutch my shoulder blades; her teeth sink into my flesh, and the dizzying pain somehow makes me hornier.

You don't need a PhD to figure out when Krista is getting ready to cum. Her high, panting moans grow progressively louder until you think the cops are going to break the door down any minute; she claws and bites me like an animal. Sex makes her lose control, like a drug that she can't quite handle.

Yeah, I like it.

I pull back and watch my cock slide out of her, almost all the way, then guide it back in, in exquisite slow motion.

"You like that?" I ask, pushing her ankles behind her ears.

"Oh yeah."

"Are you a horny little slut?"

"Yes."

"Say it!"

"I'm a horny little slut!"

Krista likes being belittled. I never really got into that type of thing; if she's that much of a whore, who wants her? But evidently she needs to be treated this way to fully get off.

Her pussy is amazing, warm and soft; it's like fucking melted chocolate. And all at once, I am outside my body, just like I used to be, watching myself like a disinterested third party. Though our bodies are stuck together like magnets and we are going at it like rabid jackals, all I want is to fuck her harder, to drive my cock deeper into her, to fill her with my hot cum until she overflows.

"You want my cum in your face? Huh? Do you?"

"Pretty please," she whispers, clutching my legs with hers, pulling me against her.

"Say it again."

"I want... you... to... cum in my face," she says, as her breathing deepens and a faint line of sweat forms across her hairline.

I pull out, squeezing my rod with all my might as I rush to the head of the bed. And just as I stop moving, I can hold it back no longer; I unleash thick cum on her, across the bridge of her nose, on her cheek, in her open mouth.

"What time do you have to be back at work?" Krista asks nonchalantly, as I search for a towel, her face still a cummy mess.

Too bad she didn't die in an M&M factory...

Saturday, December 2, 2006, 12:00pm
Lila's office, parking lot


"I'll drive, if that's okay," Lila says.

It's un-Decemberlike today, with air so warm and inviting that I roll down my window as we drive. She guides the car to the highway and onto a bridge, and there is something familiar about the dark gray oil tanks and heavy construction equipment that block my view of the water beyond. I've gone this way before, but not for a long time...

"Are we going to the hospital?" I ask, finally.

"Mm-hmm," she says, without looking at me. I wait for her to explain, and she doesn't.

I'm not sure what business she has at the hospital, but we're not going to visit someone; if we were, she would have told me. Besides, yesterday she said she had to "talk" to me, not visit a sick friend or relative.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that Lila might be the one who is sick. Maybe she's being tested for HIV. Maybe she's already tested positive, and she wants a doctor to break the news.

My stomach turns to ice. If she's HIV-positive, that would mean that...

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" I ask, finally calming myself down enough to speak.

"Oh, nothing really. I just... go there sometimes, and I wanted some company."

"You go to the hospital? Why?"

"I don't... never mind."

We park on the third level of a dank garage. Lila's heavy footfalls echo loudly against the pavement as we walk to the entrance, the way Dan Johnson's do; it's the walk of an important person who would never be here without a good reason.

"Hi, sweetheart," says the receptionist as we breeze by.

"This is where my nana stayed, right before she passed away. She had pneumonia. They took such good care of her. They were so nice."

"The nana I met last year?"

"Yeah."

Lila's great-grandmother Fran died this summer; I remember signing the sympathy card that got passed around the office. I vaguely recall that she was distraught about it, but at that point, if it didn't involve eating, sleeping, fucking, or wiping my ass, I didn't have time for it.

The first, and last, time I ever saw Fran was a snowy December day, and it struck me how alone she was, cooped up in a small 12th-floor apartment, while in the cul-de-sacs far below her, families gathered, sharing the joy of the season.

"Did your mom ever go visit her last Christmas?"

"Doubt it. She sent her a card, that was probably it."

"So we were the only ones who visited her during the holidays?"

"I went back a couple of times."

"Hello, dear," says an elderly woman with a walker.

"Hi, Margaret, merry Christmas," smiles Lila. "This is my friend, Steve!"

Lila leads me to the cafeteria, where we dine on leathery roast beef and bruised apples.

"Aren't those beautiful?" she asks, pointing to a series of wintry scenes painted on the picture windows. "This guy came in and did them all in, like, six hours."

"How often do you come here?"

"Couple times a week."

I look at her.

"I know you think I'm a whack job. Forget it, I shouldn't have brought you here," she says, and her face falls into the prettiest pout you've ever seen, with the slightly-jutting lower lip: Subtle, yet powerful enough to empty Bill Gates' bank account.

"I do get it. You miss her."

"Mmm."

"You should have seen yourself walking here just now. You kept looking down the hall like you were waiting for someone. Like she was gonna come around the corner in her wheelchair any minute."

"So you don't think I'm coocoo for coming here?"

"Does Nate know you come here?"

"No. You didn't answer me. Am I crazy?"

"Pretty much."

"Steve," she laughs.

I'm sure most of you think she's cracked, but I don't. Everyone always talks about what's really important, and what's really important invariably winds up being family. No matter how successful we are, no matter how much money or how many toys we have, spending time with those we love is the most important thing, or so we are told.

But of course, when someone we love dies, we are programmed just as aggressively to move on, to forget that person and live our lives. We are to light a candle, shed a tear, and then get back to folding our laundry. Why? What is so weird about going to the last place Lila saw her great-grandmother alive, if it brings back good memories?

Being here makes me think, too. My dad was very ill this year, and I'm lucky to still have him here. I don't have to hang around the hospital, wishing I had another day with him; I can actually see him whenever I want.

"I think you're a hell of a lot sweeter than I'll ever be. When I die, I hope someone does that for me," I say, finally.

"I need to show you something," she exclaims, and leads me down the hall so quickly that I have to trot to keep up. We round a corner, and she seems not to notice the breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows to our right; instead, she stops at a wall filled with five-foot-high wooden plaques, each one covered with rows of small brass nameplates. She reaches up over her head and points to a plate reading, "IN MEMORY OF FRANCES LEGGIERO"

"See? That's my nana," she says, like a proud little girl.

The double date

Friday, December 1, 2006, 7:15pm
Ming Garden Restaurant

Nate is tall and chiseled, exactly the Abercrombie model-wannabe that I envisioned. He is careful to take control of the conversation early, and to be our table spokesman, speaking on behalf of the group each time the waitress visits.

Nate might as well be pissing a circle around Lila, marking his territory like a wolf. He's no doubt heard all about me, and he wants me to know that she is his now, not mine, and that his biceps are bigger than mine, too.

I have no idea why he's insecure, if he is at all. He's taller than me, younger, and better-looking. He's more Lila's physical equal than I am, and I often wondered why she never dated more guys like him.

"You have a Z4, don't you?" he asks, when the conversation lulls. "Those things have crappy suspensions, I heard." He smiles broadly, and the girls chuckle.

Don't you just love when someone basically spits in your eye and then laughs it off? You try to give it back to them, and it's "Hey, ease up! It was just a joke!" But guys like Nate always slip up eventually, and when he does, I'll be waiting.

"Yeah, the sport suspension is standard, and it doesn't like bumpy roads. Anyway, I sold mine."

"Uh oh," he chortles. "The girlfriend is laying down the law!"

"I wish I had that much control over him," Tim says. "Actually, it was--"

Lila slaps his arm lightly and grits her teeth at him. "Sorry," he mutters.

I'd know that mutter anywhere. That's the I'm-fucking-Lila mutter. You tell yourself that you don't need her, that she is just another warm pit stop for your little Darth Vader, but you know that if she ever pulls that steady sex stream out from under you, that you'll collapse to the floor, reduced to a shivering wreck, a heroin addict quitting cold turkey. I've muttered more than a few insincere "sorry"s myself, in order to keep the sexual gravy train rolling. I can't blame Nate one bit.


"Steve, let's go smoke a stogie in the bar," Nate says after dinner.

"Ick," Lila says.

"It's not that bad," Tim says. "Let me just use the girls' room and I'll get us a nice dessert wine!"

"I'm not 21--" Lila says, but she is gone.

"Good call. I'm gonna hit the head too," says Nate.

"I'm sorry about what Nate said," Lila says, once we are alone.

"Still breaking him in, eh?" I laugh.

"Are you free for lunch tomorrow?" she says, and my cock goes instinctively stiff. But my gut is wrong; she can't want sex. If nothing else, she would never insult Tim that way.

"I--"

"There's something I need to talk to you about. Can you meet me at the office at 12?"

"You're working on a Saturday?"

"Just in the morning. So can you meet me?"

"Sure. Where do you work?" I smile.

"Shut up," she laughs.