Has anyone seen Steve's testicles?

It's good that there is no such thing as a dick license, because after my last couple of posts, there'd be a committee voting to revoke mine, and uniformed agents would be bursting through my door to impound my pecker straight away.

It's been a long time since I've been "hooked up" with a girl, and I am clearly out of practice. I'm always preaching about having a poker face, and here I am, freaking out at every rumor, quivering like fresh meringue in the back of a moving bakery truck.

Never fucking again.

I don't care WHAT the rumor is. I don't care if people are saying that she fucked the entire New England Patriots offensive line on my desk. I'm not asking anymore. Worrying about that crap makes me feel weak and insecure, and I hate it.

If Lila really were fucking Dom, she wouldn't be stupid enough to tell anyone in the office about it. People around here have a way of twisting things around. You work with someone in their cubicle for an hour or two, and the next day the rumor is that you are fucking. It's just how it works.

I make a deal with myself. If anything happens with Lila, if she cheats on me, or dumps me, or if it doesn't work out for any reason, I'll go away on a nice vacation, to Grand Cayman, or Bermuda, or maybe even Hawaii, and I'll hone my babe-catching skills. Hell, maybe I'll move to one of these island paradises, if I like it enough. Point is, I won't let it ruin my life. And that makes me feel better.

It's Wednesday. I haven't had sex with Lila since the massage. I am horny as all hell. I get to her house around 7:00, and she is plugging in lamps and adjusting furniture.

"Baby!!!" she says, letting me in. Her apartment is actually the lower level of a duplex, with a huge living room and family room. Only one bedroom, but it's big.

Lila is moving in with her friend Sophie. I've met her a few times before.

"Hi Steve!" Sophie says, coming out of the kitchen. She kisses my cheek. Sophie is cute, about 5'5", with short dark hair. She is covered in lean muscle, like a gymnast.

"He's HERE. Now will you please shut up!" Sophie says to Lila. " 'Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve,' " she mocks. " 'We have to get this table put together before Steve gets here.' 'We can't order that for dinner, Steve doesn't like it there.' 'You can't put the bed there, Steve won't wanna have sex with me there!' "

"I didn't say that about the bed," Lila says, chuckling.

"She has been going on and on about you ALL damn day. You must have given it to her good last night," Sophie says. Sophie is pretty blunt, but I like her.

"No, that's tonight. So make some plans," I say.

"I plan on joining in!" she says.

Yeah right. Sophie is ALL talk, believe me.

"Go get some clothes and stay with me tonight," Lila says.

"Ummm..." Walking around, bleary-eyed, in my boxers and blowing morning farts with Sophie around is not a good thought.

"Pleeeeease? You're LEAVING tomorrow," she pouts.

It's true. I have to go to corporate for a couple of days.

"Ahh, ok. But Sophie better not grind her teeth."

"YAY!!!" Lila says.

"SLEEPOVER!" Sophie yells.

One bedroom, with Sophie in the next bed? Lila probably won't be cool about fucking with her roommate there. I certainly don't give a crap, but.....

I figure now that Lila is away from her mother's watchful eye, she can stay with me a lot. But since this is her first night at the new place, I'll stay here.

"Come look at the bedroom," Lila says, staring at me. I follow her down the hall.

"OH-OH!!!" says Sophie. "Bootie tiiiime!!"

"Shut up, biotch," I say, laughing. OK, she's pretty funny.

"I was thinking about you allll day, lover," she says, grabbing my face in her hand. "I was thinking about how you massaged me."

"Yeah? Did that fucking get you off?"

"mmmmmmm. Yeah."

I kiss her, a full, wet, long, lip-lock.

"You did such a good job with the managers' meeting today," she says.

"How do YOU know?"

"Had my ear to the door," she says. "Bonnie, too."

"Is THAT why there was a Chinese food menu outside my door?"

"Hehehehehe! Yeah, Bonnie dropped it and then you found it before she did."

"Was wondering how it got there," I say.

"I LOVE how you are so in charge at those meetings," she says. "You make me soo proud."

"Thanks."

"Everyone is afraid of you, you know," she says.

"Bullshit."

"They think you're gonna do massive layoffs."

There ARE going to be layoffs. Not many, and not immediately, but yeah, I expect to tighten things up a little. At the very least, I'll reduce the staff by attrition (i.e., if someone quits I won't replace them). I know I'm going to get reamed for it, but you guys know me by now: I don't give a SHIT what anyone else says. There is so much waste in this company that I can hardly sleep at night.

"How bout you," I say. "Are YOU afraid of me?"

"Mmm-hmm. I want you to fucking spank me," she says.

Ok. Just don't call me 'daddy'. Or 'Lee'.

She slides her skirt down. She's wearing a white thong. I sit down on the bed and kiss her. It occurs to me that we are in the "power position", with me sitting and her standing. I jerk her arm down. She's not expecting it. She falls across my lap and almost tumbles off the bed.

"Hey, you almost knocked me over," she says, smiling.

"Take your panties off," I say. I am feeling very aggressive all of a sudden.

She lifts her hips off my lap and slides her thong down. She cranes her head around and stares at me.

"Were you a bad little girl?" I say.

OK, did I just say that?

"Mmhmm." She is staring at me.

"How bad?"

"WICKED fucking bad."

"Do I need to FUCKING spank you?"

"mm-hmmm."

"BEG me."

"Pleeease, Steve, please fucking spank me."

"Keep going."

"I want you to slap my fucking ass as hard as you can."

I spank Lila every once in a while. It's cool and all, but mostly I get off on it because it gets her hot. Hitting never did much for me.

I haul off and slap her ass. The SMACK! is louder than I expected. It's the sound of a whip cracking. There is a huge red handprint on her butt cheek.

I run my hands over her two soft, pale-white globes. Has God ever made such a perfect ass before? I doubt it.

I smack the other cheek. CRACK!!

She moans. "Slap me again, Steve."

I slap her again, and again. Her ass jiggles just a bit with each impact. Both cheeks are fire-engine red. She HAS to be sore.

I pull her up gently by the hair. Our mouths plunge together, our tongues mingling wetly. I feel her unbuckling my belt, then unhooking and zippering. She's not looking.

Impressive! The female equivalent of one-handing a bra.

She puts my cock in her mouth. I watch it disappear between her soft, pink lips. She is staring at me.

She takes almost all of it in, then slides it back out. It is slick and warm. She covers her teeth perfectly; there is no friction at all, no scraping (dick-biting has its place, ladies, but don't overdo it).

I can feel the pressure building. "Are you trying to make me come," I say.

She pulls it out of her mouth and stands up, pulling her shirt off. I get out of my pants and shirt.

She bends over the edge of the bed, her feet on the floor. She flips her hair over her shoulder and turns around, staring at me again.

I come up behind her, and rub my cock against her. It is warm and wet with her saliva.

She spreads her legs a little more. I slide effortlessly into her.

Oh shit, I think. I am just about to come.

I stop fucking. The urge subsides. For a minute, I thought I was going to have to go for a "ball grab".

What I do is, when I am just about to come, I grab my balls and pull down. GENTLY. I'm not yanking that water-chain like Jennifer Beals in "Flashdance", now. I just tug with firm pressure. The orgasm sometimes subsides that way.

I start to fuck her again. She is slick and slippery-feeling, and penetrating her is easy.

"Oooo, my pussy is so wet for you lover. I was thinking about you today."

"Oh yeah," I say, fucking her faster.

"I was in the bathroom..."

"Touching yourself?"

"mmmhmmmmm."

"Did you make yourself come?"

"Uh-huh. I fucking came so hard."

We are fucking even faster now, grinding away with reckless abandon. A couple of times, I pull back too far and slip out of her. She is so wide open that I slide back in, without touching.

I pull out. "You wanna ride me," I say.

"uh-huh."

I lay on my back, and she straddles me slowly, flipping her hair back. She holds her hips over mine for a long moment, then grabs my wet, throbbing cock and slides it into her, watching intently the whole time. She grinds her hips back, then forward, her eyes rolling back into her head.

She presses three fingers against her clit, and rubs just a little.

She grabs my wrist and squeezes. "Ohhhhhh. OHHHHHH! OHHH MY FUCKING GOD!" she screams.

I grab her around the back and stand up, then I turn around and fall onto the bed on top of her.

I lean back a little and look down as my cock penetrates her, fully, every millimeter disappearing inside her.

I push into her as deeply as I can and explode with what must have been a pretty loud series of moans.

The orgasm subsides. We stare pantingly at each other.

"When are you coming back?" she asks.

"Friday."

"Will you stay with me Friday night? Or can I stay with you?" she whispers.

"You stay with me," I say.

There is a loud KNOCK KNOCK at the door. "Hurry up, kids, I need to put away the sheets," Sophie says.

"You got some more to wash, now!" I shout. It occurs to me that I am still inside Lila.

"Yeah, we did the nasty all over your bedsheets, Soph," Lila says.

"EWWWWWWWWW! Now I have to boil 'em!" Sophie says.

We get dressed and open the door. "Sophie. If the door is closed, come. back. later." Lila says, smiling.

"She was just hoping to catch us in the act," I say.

"Hey! My sheets are fine," Sophie says, running her hand along the top of her bed.

"We were just joking," I say. "Did you really think we'd do it on your bed?!"

"You horny bastards are just sick enough for that," she smiles.

I'm starting to find out what it's like to have a real girlfriend. We don't really make dates anymore; we just kind of meet at my house, or hers, and spend blocks of time together, sometimes doing our own individual things, sometimes doing them together.

I like doing work with Lila in the house. It's comforting. She reminds me that I should stop working and take a break every once in a while.

9:30. I am sitting on the couch in my socks and shorts, my laptop in my lap (go figure). She comes up behind me and drapes her arms around my neck. She plants a sloppy kiss on the side of my face.

"Come to bed," she says.

I NEVER go to bed this early, never. What am I, 12 years old? But I do have an early flight.

I'm not much of a snuggler. I actually get a little claustrophobic with someone clinging so tightly to me. But I follow her to the room and do it anyway. I like it.

I reach down and check. Yep, balls are still there.

Look at all these rumors, surroundin' me every day...

A couple of quick things before I get rolling today....

...I get a lot of hits from a site called www.twinsgeek.com, and I am not sure where the link to me is. There is a message board there, but I'll be damned if I can find where I am linked. If anyone can help solve the mystery on this, please drop a comment. I'm just curious...

...A couple of you have told me you like the t-shirt design, but for some reason I can't begin to comprehend, you don't want to walk around with the word "Sexwhacko" on your backs. So, I've added another design with a blank reverse. You now have two to choose from! For those of you who have received your shirts, please send me some pix so I can post them.

...I hit two blog milestones this week: my 100th post and my 25,000th hit. Thanks to everyone out there in blogland for coming back again and again. And coming, and coming, and coming.....

Ahem.

**********

I was never big on spreading rumors in high school, but I heard and remembered almost all of them.

For as long as I can remember, I've been an excellent eavesdropper. I was the fat kid across from you at study hall, fastidiously extracting the last few precious crumbs of Dorito dust from the bottom of the bag, who you didn't think heard a word you were saying. But I heard everything: Who's fucking who, who is going to be waiting for who after school to kick his ass, who is failing chemistry, whose sister is pregnant.

For some reason, I have a knack for looking like I am so wrapped up in what I am doing that I'm not noticing what's going on around me, when in reality I am taking it all in. And it never did me much good, until now.

Eavesdropping is a great skill to have in my office. The employees are information whores, eagerly opening their ears to whatever morsel of gossip they can, regardless of the source, and then sluttily, indiscriminately, passing it on to five other people, who in turn do the same.

I collect snippets of conversation as I walk through the cubicles:

"These PO's take so long to get to me now. Ever since Steve took over...."

"I hear Steve is gonna write Barbara up for interrupting his speech...."

"He's changing all the procedures...."

"He's doing layoffs in the fall....."

The general vibe I feel is one of unease. People feel I am interrupting their routines, and they are nervous and angry about it.

Like I always say: "If you're pissing people off, you're probably doing something right." If every single person is happy, you're either lying or promising too much.

Yeah, I AM shaking things up around here. And it's not just because I want us to make more money. It's because I don't tolerate inefficiency.

I have been studying budgets for days now, and I am shocked at the amount of waste. We are blowing $50,000 per year unnecessarily on temporary employees alone, according to my calculations. And that's conservative. But I'll blog about that another time.

An old boss of mine once told me that being a manager is like being a parent. You can't go ballistic every time your child acts up; you have to pick your battles. Reacting to the right offense, and reacting properly, is very effective.

I don't like people saying things like what I heard. The majority of it is totally false, and the rest is misleading. It's probably hurting morale. But the answer is not to find every whisperer in the place and sever their vocal chords; the answer is to make sure that the COMPANY'S position is clearly communicated.

It's Wedneday the 8th. An IM window pops up on my PC. It's Bob, from IT. We talk from time to time.

BOB: Did you hear about Dom and Lila?

Oh, shit.

STEVE: No what about them

BOB: Dom bagged her the other night. My man is smooth...

STEVE: Proof?

BOB: She told Theresa [from IT], theresa told me

My breathing gets shallow. My stomach burns like I just swallowed a cup of battery acid. Is she cheating on me? IS SHE FUCKING CHEATING?

She is. She must be. That's why she was late the other night. That's why she came over to my house, because she felt guilty. She's sucking his cock, she's fucking him, she's riding him cowgirl style and ripping off one screaming orgasm after another. And she's laughing at me the whole time, because she's finally getting her revenge.

Shit. I GOTTA pull myself together. For the second time in a few days, I am freaking out over Lila and Dom. This jealousy is getting out of control. And yet, somehow, the idea that I have a rival, the idea that some other guy is poking her, gets me off.

I trust Lila, I do. I just have to grow up a little. My stomach burned the exact same way when I overheard mom and dad fighting, and I heard her say she was moving out. I was being abandoned. That naive little kid still lives in me, and he is way too simple to understand how rumors start. He hears something, and believes it.

STEVE: believe it when i see it

BOB: I believe it, dom's got game man

STEVE: for his sake he better hope its not true. i plan on enforcing company policy

BOB: O yeah, i forgot you're a big shot now

3:15. I walk into Dom's office. He's finishing up on the phone.

"......Bacardi..." I hear in his whispery voice. "........Bacardi.....", ".........Bacardi...." The word is woven into otherwise unintelligible sentences; it wafts over to me, then away, then back again, like a pesky fly.

My stomach drops.

Lila loves Bacardi.

I can hardly work the rest of the day. Is she fucking Dom?

5:15. I am still at my desk; Lila is on her way home. I call her cell.

"Hello?" She says, sweetly.

"Hey."

"What's wrong?" She can hear it in my voice.

"I thought you said they didn't serve to you the other night."

"They didn't!"

"Dom didn't give you any booze?"

"Yeah. He bought a drink, and he didn't finish it, so he gave me the rest."

Silence.

"Steve, when the HELL are you gonna start trusting me?!"

"Why didn't you TELL me, Lila?" I feel betrayed. I just want to cry like the tutu-wearing candyass that I am.

"Why didn't I tell you I drank half of his fucking drink? Gimme a break Steve!" Her teeth are gritted; I can hear it.

"What did you say to Theresa?"

"Errrr," she growls. "I told her I drank half of his drink. I told her I loved Bacardi. She asked me if I thought Dom was cute. I said yes. Okay?"

"So you think your boss is cute."

"Oh, come on, Steve, like you don't drool over Marie in payroll."

Well, that's different. She wears "fuck me" pumps to work! AND she's got a big rack!

I sigh. She is right, of course.

"I'm sorry baby. I just get jealous now."

"I LIKE that you're jealous."

"Why?"

"Because it shows that you care," she says.

"Are you tired of me yet," I say.

"Never."

I take a deep breath and feel better. This is so hard for me.

"Say it," she says softly, in her little-girl voice.

"Baby, I love you," I say.

She sniffles. "I love you soo much. I would never hurt you, Steve!" Her voice is shaking with the tears. "Please trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you."

"I know, honey."

"OK".

"What are you doing tonight," I say.

"Fucking Dom," she says.

"Smart ass!"

"I'm waiting for you to come visit me," she says. Lila is moving into her new place today.

"Red wine or champagne?" I say.

Meet the parent bourbon-guzzling, foul-mouthed shrew

2:30. My phone rings. I don't recognize the number.

"Hello?"

"Hey! Is Lila around?" Says the smooth voice on the other end.

OK, who the FUCK is this? And why is he looking for Lila? And why does he sound like a used car salesman?

Ahhh, the car guy. Lila gave him my number. Let's see if I can get rid of him.

"Who's THIS?" I say, angrily.

"Well, I, er, I met her the other day, and she gave me this number, and...."

"How old are you, friend?"

"Ah, well, if this is a big deal, you know, well, ah-"

"The questions get harder as they go along!" I say naggingly.

"I'm, uh, 28."

"Do you know how old Lila is?"

Silence.

"SEVENTEEN." Yeah, a little exaggeration.

"Oh, well, I didn't know that. I'm sorry about that, sir. I mean, SHE gave me her number, so I was just calling..."

"Yeah, well she's SEVENTEEN, friend." I'm a little too good at this father-of-a-teenage-girl thing. Should I be afraid?

"Well, as I said," he says, recovering, "she was the one who offered-"

"I don't care," I say dismissively. "Maybe you ought to find someone your own age."

Perfect. He thought I was her dad, but I never actually said so. More truth than lie, just the way I like it.

**********

I can't stop thinking about my run-in with mom yesterday. She did not deserve to be treated that way. Who cares if she was ascerbic and confrontational? My job is to be better than that, to keep my poker face and not let her get to me. Besides, she is sick in the hospital and does not need that kind of stress. I owe her an apology.

I tell Lila what happened.

"You said WHAT?!" Lila says.

"Lila, you have to know the relationship mom and I have."

"Oh, Steve."

"What do you mean, 'Oh, Steve'?"

"Steve, YOU are stronger than that. She's just trying to annoy you. MY mother does it, too."

"Yeah, well, like I said, I'm gonna go apologize."

"Oh, ok, well, I'll talk to you after-"

"You wanna meet her?" I ask.

Yeah, I want her to meet my family. It's almost like SHE is family too.

Am I crazy? Definitely. But my feelings for Lila are starting to spill over into other areas of my life. I'm helping old men change tires. I'm waving to kids on school buses. I smell candles in card shops and say, "Lila would LOVE this one!!"

Oh shit. I go to card shops.

I just hope mom hasn't been sneaking any booze. I imagine her stealing a syringe and injecting vodka into her IV bag, or better yet, mainlining it right up the vein in the crook of her elbow. Don't laugh. mom is a desperate woman.

Lila and I get to mom's room. "Wait here," I say, and head inside.

It's around 6:00. Mom's dinner tray is cast aside, resting on a tall cart. An uneaten plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes is strewn with a chewed styrofoam cup and crumbled napkins.

I stand in the doorway and knock lightly on the jamb.

Mom's eyebrows jump. "Honey!" she shrieks.

Moms have a way of saying "honey" that makes it impossible not to hug them. I walk to her and we embrace. It's hard making myself relax: Part of me fears that mom has swiped a scalpel and is waiting for the right moment to slice a red smiley face between my ears.

"Where was my hard-working man yesterday? Your two brothers came, you know."

She's beaming. Mom has two thin lines on either side of her mouth when she smiles; they make her attractive in a warm, cozy kind of way. It's the smile of mothers in aspirin commercials.

Wait a minute. I WAS here yesterday! Was mom blacked out the whole time?

"Mom, I was here!" I say.

Her smile fades. "What time?" she asks.

"Two, two-thirty."

She rubs the right side of her face with an open palm. "Ho God. I didn't wake up until five."

"Mom, you were awake."

"My eyes were open. I wasn't awake. I don't remember seeing you."

"I see."

"Did I yell? Did I swear at you? I did, didn't I?"

"Nothing unusual, mom."

"C'mere," she says, holding an arm out to me. She takes me by the back of the neck and pulls my head to her chest. She plays with my hair. "Your mommy loves you. You know that, right?"

"I love you too, mom."

She lets me go. "Dr. Patel wants me to go to rehab," she sighs.

"You gonna do it?"

"I don't know." She pulls her lips into her mouth; her eyes close slowly. "I'm scared, honey."

"Me too, mom."

She rubs my chin and studies my face as if readying to paint a portrait. It occurs to me she is trying to memorize my face before she dies.

"Mom, I want you to meet someone," I say.

I lean out the door and motion Lila inside.

She peeks around the door frame, then enters gingerly, with a sheepish smile.

Lila doesn't dress up much, and she's not dressed up today: Faded jeans and my old t-shirt, with her hair flipped over one shoulder. She's the kind of girl who doesn't mind if we can't think of anything to do on a Saturday night.

Mom gasps audibly. "Who are YOU," she says, wide-eyed.

"Lila, this is my mom, Louise. Mom, this is my girlfriend Lila," I say.

My girlfriend Lila. My girlfriend, Lila. Lila, my girlfriend. I don't think I've ever introduced her that way before.

I'm overwhelmed with pride. I'm WITH her! My stomach leaps.

Hey, guess what, mom? I'm actually in something remotely resembling a healthy relationship!!

"My GOD, you are gorgeous," mom says. "Look at those EYES!"

Lila puckers her lips to the side, stifling a grin. I put my arm around her and she pulls me closer.

"It's nice to meet you," Lila says, finally. "I'm so sorry you're sick."

"So how long have you two been dating? Ooooo, sit down, I wanna know ALL about you!" Mom says.

Mom finds out that Lila knits. That's it. Lila's hooked. Mom can be quite the charmer. Now, until Lila sees her drunk, she's going to think that I am the most ungrateful, disrespectful progeny ever to squeeze my way down a birth canal.

They talk for almost an hour. "Steve, go get us some pizza," mom says finally, never taking her eyes off Lila.

And just like that, Mr. hot-shot VP is dodging cars across a busy street, toting the flat, square cardboard box like a pimple-faced delivery boy.

It's 9:30. The pizza box lays open, engulfing the barbie doll-sized sink, with one cold and lonely pepperoni-dotted slice stuck in a corner, facing the wrong way.

Mom and Lila sigh heavily, almost at the same time, then laugh as they subconsciously touch each others' arms.

"Will you come back and see me soon?" Mom says.

"Of COURSE I will, Louise!"

Mom gives her her pretty mom-smile, her head tilted to the side, her eyes absorbing every detail. She's like a photographer, or a documentarian. She's making another memory.

I wonder how long the memory will live.

I know who you are, and you just annoy me

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Where's Norman Rockwell when you need him?

1:00 pm, Monday, September 6. My phone rings.

"This is Steve."

"Steven." My father says, gravely.

When dad uses the name "Steven," he's either pissed at me, or someone died.

Did mom die? Is she dead?

"Dad? What is it," I say.

"Your mother's back in the hospital. She had an....incident last night."

"Oh, no."

"She was drinking all night at Pins n' Needles."

Charming establishment, by the way. Singular ambience. Twenty-five-cent drafts just taste a little sweeter with that bowling alley smell mixed in.

"She's off the wagon ALREADY?"

"Yes, Steve. Evidently, she left there around closing time, and someone found her in the morning, about 100 yards from her house."

"Where?"

"Neighbor's front lawn."

"Jesus."

"Guy got up and saw her, and called 911, and they took her to the hospital."

"So are you there now, at the hospital?"

"Yeah, just got here. I only heard about a half hour ago."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Your mother doesn't carry identification, so they had no idea who she was. Luckily Dr. Patel was on duty and he recognized her."

"So how is she? Did she wake up?"

"She's very, very bad, Steve. Her blood alcohol level was over .20 when they brought her in."

"WHAT??"

"And that's after being passed out for a few hours. Dr. Patel says one more like that and she won't wake up again."

"So she did wake up?"

"Yeah, she's still kind of out of it, but she's awake. You should come see her."

It should be easy to explain to your coworkers that you are leaving the office to see a sick parent: "Sorry guys, gotta go see my dad. He fell off his tractor and broke his collarbone." Or, "Mom's diverticulitis is acting up again. See you in the morning." But in my case, I have to be careful.

The truth, the WHOLE truth, wouldn't sound good: "Well, mom pretty much wants to die, and what with the high cost of embalming, she figured she'd defray her posthumous expenses by pickling her internal organs with Southern Comfort before she croaks. But sometimes she gets a little overzealous and wakes up in a puddle of her own puke."

I tell a few people where I am off to. "Mom's got cirrhosis very bad," I say. Yeah, it's true. But that's not why she's at the hospital, so I guess I am lying. Not that it's anyone's business anyway.

2:30. I am standing next to mom's bed. Her eyelids are half-open, and her skin has again turned to a sickly yellow. There is an IV in the back of her hand. Monitors beep and flash red numbers behind her bed.

"You look like you could use a drink," I say.

"Make itta double," she slurrs.

"Mom, what are you trying to do here, huh? I thought you were on the wagon!"

"Fuck th'wagon," she says drowsily. She blinks a few times and her eyes open wider.

"Mom, if we're gonna get you a liver we have to-"

"They're not gonna give me a liver," she says, fully awake now. "You think they're gonna give a liver to an old drunk like me? Fergeddit! They don't give a shit about me! They're gonna let me die!"

"But mom, if you stay sober...."

"AAAAAAAHHHH," she says, waving her had at me and averting her eyes. "Steve, your mother is gonna die."

"Mom, you don't know that!"

"Yes I do," she says. "And I'll be damned if I'm gonna stop having fun."

"Yeah mom. Passing out and wetting your pants sounds like a real party."

"I didn't wet my pants."

"And that catheter going up your front porch? Just like a ride on Space Mountain, right?"

"I'm leaving here today. I'm not staying anymore. No more doctors, no more medicine, NOTHING. I'm DONE," she says. "What the hell is the point? Stop drinking, so I can stay sick for another 4 or 5 months before I go? Forget about it."

"WE are the point, mom. Greg and Chris and me, and dad. And Jenny, and everyone else who gives a crap about you. You wanna have fun? Spend time with the family. Make it count!"

"You don't care about me ONE bit. All this time none of ya bothered to spend any time with yer mother. Now I'm sick and you're all around."

"Yeah, we obviously have ulterior motives. We're all fighting over who gets your refrigerator magnets in the will."

"Don't be a fucking smart ass," she snaps.

"You know what, mom? You've got a lot of nerve. After walking the hell out on us, now YOU'RE pissed that WE didn't come looking for you? YOU'RE the parent. YOU'RE the one who's supposed to find US, not the other way around."

"Just watch your smart little mouth," she growls, her lips pulled so far back that her gums are exposed. "You're such a goddamn know-it-all. You didn't get that from me, that's for sure."

"Yeah, that's true mom, 'cause you don't know shit!" I'm starting to raise my voice.

"Yeah, I don't know shit. It's all your mother's fault. Blame your mother for everything. I musta done something right! The three of ya's have good jobs, nice cars, everything. So I guess I'm not as bad as you say."

"Yeah, you did something right. You left."

"FINE, Steve, FINE!!!" She yells. "I'm the biggest loser in the world! So don't whine and bitch and piss and moan at me about not coming back! If you're better off without me, then what the FUCK are you doing here?"

"Good question, mom." I grab my keys.

"You're an ungrateful little motherfucker, you know that? You never appreciate anything. You never once said thank you for anything. It's all about you, Steve! ALLL about you! Your big job and all your fucking money, and you don't give a shit about anything."

"I learn from my mother, I guess!" I sneer.

"Get outta here!" she yells.

"FUCK YOU, YOU LOUSY DRUNK!"

"GET THE HELL OUT!" She shrieks.

Another heartwarming family memory. Gotta remember this one for the Thanksgiving dinner table.

At least she didn't say, "Bavarian Kreme..."

I am posting on a weekend - again - because I am trying to get caught up. Enjoy....

**********

Thursday, September 2.

She's on my bed. It's perfectly quiet. A neighbor's garage spotlight casts a soft white glow over the room through the half-closed blinds.

She's on her stomach, her long hair twisted in a lazy ponytail and flipped next to her head, exposing her naked back and the steep round curve of her backside.

I'm still dressed. I straddle her lower back and kiss the side of her mouth. We look at each other for a long time.

**********

I stare dreamily at Lila's taut midriff as she places a box of Pendaflex folders on a high shelf. She cries out in pain.

"What happened," I say, snapping out of my dirty daydream.

"My shoulder," she says, reaching under her arm and rubbing at her upper back.

Dominick walks by, his cologne-cloud close behind. Our respective man-scents wrestle each other invisibly in the middle of the room. Smells like a draw.

Gotta go for 8 sprays tomorrow, instead of the usual 5. Either that, or wear less, and make him look like the Guido that he is.

"She's just looking for sympathy," Dom says softly, smiling. "She wants me to bring her some chocolate donuts."

"No, I like honey," she says, raising her eyebrows at him.

Ok, what the fuck was THAT about?

**********

The bottle says "Stress Relief Massage Oil". It's got apricot kernel extract in it. Since when do apricots have kernels?

I open the bottle. It smells sweet, fruity, and....comforting, like a holiday dessert that my grandmother would serve to a table full of overstuffed, semi-sleeping relatives.

I tip the bottle. The liquid is thinner than I expected. It overflows my cupped fingers and cascades onto her back, streaming down her side and onto my maroon bed sheets.

She rolls up on her left side and looks back at me. "Do I need to take that away from you," she says, with a smile and sidelong eyes.

**********

"Dom wants to take me and Bonnie to dinner tonight," Lila says.

"So go."

"Are you ok with that?"

"I'm ok with you getting to know your boss. I'm NOT ok with him flirting with you."

"Me neither!"

"Call me if you need me," I say.

"I'll call to say good night."

"OK".

**********

I snap awake. I am sitting at my computer. I look at the clock in the lower right-hand corner of the screen. It's 9:43.

Is she still with him?

**********

The oil is soft and warm. It soothes me, too, as I work it into her back.

Her flesh is soft and supple, like modelling clay. I knead it firmly between my thumb and fingers, and I can feel her tension melting away.

Her shoulder blade is tight to the touch. "Ow!" she says, softly, as I gently squeeze the muscle.

This is going to take time.

I rub. I smooth out with the heel of my hand. I rub again. I feel the knot reluctantly give way, and there is another one underneath. Eventually the knots are gone.

It's been almost an hour since I started.

I massage my way down her back, and work on the area just above her waist. I return to the sore shoulder blade. It's had 10 minutes to recover. I press it with my thumb.

"Ow!" She says. It's tightening up again.

I release a few more knots.

"It's getting better," she says. "You are incredible."

No, just patient. And horny.

**********

9:59. The doorbell.

I open the door. It's Lila. She is smiling.

"Hey baby!" she says, hugging me with her left arm.

"This is a....surprise," I say.

"I missed you. And I have a huge favor to ask you," she says, looking up at me with her eyelids flickering.

A threesome? No problem. With anyone but The Greasy Goon.

"What's that?"

"Would you give me a massage? My shoulder is killing me."

"We'll talk about it," I say, smiling.

I pour her a glass of wine.

"How was dinner," I say, finally. It's been killing me. A three-hour "dinner" usually involves bar hopping, clubbing, or blow jobs in parking lots.

"It was ok. He took us to Clara's."

Clara's is a very expensive Italian restaurant. Dom's finely-tuned palate and sense of culinary sophistication is going to cost the company about $200.

"We waited an hour and a half for a table," she says.

"Didn't you have a reservation?"

"Yes! But they had a problem with one of their grills and they were way behind. They were giving away free drinks, but they wouldn't serve to me."

"Really?"

"But Dom got drunk, and after dinner he tried to get me to drive him home in his car."

That motherfucker.

This is an old trick. Get loaded, or LOOK like you are getting loaded, and then tell the chick that you are too drunk to drive, and get her to drive you home in your car. Then, you're guaranteed to get her into your house, at least long enough to call a cab. But in the meantime, you're making your move.

"Where was Bonnie?"

"It was getting too late, so she took off before dinner was even over."

"So what did you do?"

"You're jealous!"

"No I'm not," I say, holding my jaw firmly.

"Yes you are, baby," she says, plopping down in my lap.

She smoothes my hair with her fingers. "You really do love me, don't you?"

"Lila! Of COURSE I do! So, how did Dom get home?"

"We called a cab. I had them drop me off at work so I could get my car, and then I guess he went back to the hotel."

**********

Her ass has been on my mind since she laid down naked on the bed. My cock throbs achingly each time my hand brushes against her soft, white globes.

Half the bottle of oil is gone. I pour out another handful and go to work on her beautiful bottom, kneading and palming, enjoying the way her flesh gives under my hands.

Her back rises and falls a little faster. A little moan escapes her closed mouth as she exhales.

I pull her sweet mounds apart, exposing a tiny puckered hole, like a little starfish. It is spotlessly clean.

I lick it.

"Make love to me," she says.

She lays perfectly still as my pants crumple to the floor, her head down, her naked body completely exposed to me, totally vulnerable to my whim. She trusts me, too.

I kneel on the bed. She is licking her fingers.

She lifts a knee under her body, then reaches between her legs and grabs my cock, rubbing softly, gently. She slides it against her twat. She is drenched. It occurs to me that her natural juices are not at all unlike the massage oil.

My cock is thick and hard, throbbing with anticipation. She slides me into her with a low groan.

I reach over and take her breast into my hand, firm and turgid in my grasp. I feel her hard nipple between my fingers. Our hips are in perfect rhythm, together, apart, together, apart.

I let go of her boob and grab the oil bottle, running my fingers along the top, just below the cap. There is a thin coating of oil on my fingers. Perfect.

I reach around and swirl my fingers around her clit. Her body stiffens. She reaches back with her right hand. I put my hand in hers, and she squeezes urgently.

"Uhhhh," she moans.

As her body relaxes, I release the full force of my orgasm inside her. She whips her hair around and stares at me as I come. I am shaking.

**********

"Hey," I say.

"Hm?"

"What was that donut thing about today?"

She tells me the story that Dom told her: When he was in college, he belonged to a fraternity that did not get along with the sorority across the street. So one day, the guys sent over a dozen donuts with a nice note saying they wanted to reconcile. The girls ate them. A few days later, the guys sent the girls a picture of themselves with the donuts around their dicks.

I explain to Lila that that story has been around forever, and that it is an urban legend. I heard the same thing on my campus when I was in school.

"You mean he LIED?"

"Yep. Hey," I say. "That whole thing about the honey..."

"I know, I felt like such a slut for saying that. It came out all wrong."

"I didn't like that," I say.

She looks me dead in the eye. "You have NOTHING to worry about. I would never hurt you, never ever."

"I love you," I say.

"I want my massage," she says. "You're the only one who does it right."

The honeymoon begins. And ends.

It's been a long time since I've been monogamous.

I didn't get laid until I was 21, as many of you know, and once my initiation (of sorts) was finished, I did fool around with 2 or 3 different girls, and then I met Angie, whom I dated for two years and actually got engaged to. I've already discussed Angie at length, so I won't belabor her again.

I was about 25 when Angie and I broke up. By then, I was out of grad school, had been hired at Tommy's firm, and was gung ho on my career. That's GUNG. HO.

Fifty- and sixty-hour-week gung ho. Whatever-the-project-is, give-it-to-me gung ho. Devour- every-available-periodical, milk-every-professional-in-spitting-distance-for-info gung ho.

I did everything I could to build my career, and it paid off, as you have read. I still thought about girls - a lot - but I cringed at the idea of a girlfriend stealing time away from work, and I was no good at random hookups back then. There was a lot of whacking in those days.

I got promoted to VP when I was 29. It was right around that time that I bought my house and my car, and started having more free time. It hit me while working out one morning that I could be getting laid. A lot. And get laid I did.

I fucked one girl after another, experimenting with different shapes, sizes, and colors, as if they were toys. I ate pussy and licked assholes. I got my dick sucked. I spanked. I GOT spanked. I fucked a girl, then fucked her sister a month later. I was a runaway freight train, hurtling down a steep sexual incline with no possibility of slowing down.

And I was having the time of my life.

I loved all the new experiences that were opened to me by my dating around. I loved being able to come home alone. I loved the thrill of the pursuit, the angling, the gamesmanship involved in trying to get some girl into bed with me. I loved the drama of not knowing what would happen when I approached her with a certain line or a certain cologne.

Even now, I am monogamous not because I love monogamy, but because I love Lila. I wonder if I will be able to resist temptation.

A lot went into telling her that I loved her. For the first time in a long time, I actually gave a shit about someone other than myself. I fought it as much as I could, because it was scary. But it's been a long time since I've felt this way about someone.

I just can't help but be reminded of our age difference, and how young people need to sow their wild oats. In five years, if we are still together, will Lila still love me? Or will she be wondering what she missed because she was not single? And if some other hot chick comes along, am I going to use these thoughts as an excuse to cheat?

**********

With all the time I've been spending with mom, and talking with the family about mom, I haven't had as much time to clean up around the house, and it's starting to get a little sloppy. Nothing outrageous, but worse than usual. Lila offers to come over after work and clean up.

While she is putting away my laundry, I run to the store and buy a few things. When I get back, she is washing the kitchen floor, so I leave the bag on the table. "I'll put it away," she says.

I check my e-mail and surf around for a bit, then come back upstairs and open the cupboard. And almost have a heart attack.

The cupboard is a fucking disaster area.

Not a real disaster, mind you. In reality, my canned goods were moved from the second shelf to the third, and all the boxed foods had been moved to the second.

But, like the 87-pound anorexic that looks in the mirror and sees Kirstie Alley, I see a Vietnam-style grocery massacre. There might as well be exploded globs of cranberry plastered around the cupboard walls, with shards of metal can strewn randomly about.

"Lila. LILA!" I yell.

She runs into the room. "What is it, Steve?"

"What the hell happened here?" I say, holding the cupboard door open.

"I just moved some things around to fit the groceries in there."

"You rearranged the whole fucking thing!"

"No I did NOT!"

"Lila, all my cans are moved, all the boxes are moved..."

"Come ON, Steve, are you THAT anal?" she says.

"I have the cupboard arranged in a certain way, Lila. Don't mess with it!"

"Well, you're paying me to do chores so I was just trying to do my job!"

"Your job is not to mark your territory like a fucking wolf!" I say.

"WHAT?!"

"Lila, this is NOT your house. You bought me the gazebo, you picked out the curtains, you're acting like you LIVE here!"

She stares at me. Her eyes start to mist over. "I can't believe you said that," she says. "If you don't want the gazebo, just tell me and I'll return it and you can have the money. And you ASKED me to pick out the curtains. It was YOUR idea to go shopping for them, not mine!"

Uh, oh yeah.

"Baby, I don't want the money, I..."

"You can be such an asshole sometimes," she says.

"I didn't mean to yell. You're right, I did ask you to go shopping for curtains. I'm sorry."

"Really?" she says.

"Yes."

Just hand those balls over, Steve.

**********

The next day, Tuesday, around dinnertime. Lila calls.

"I just bought a car!" She says.

"Which one?"

"That Honda I was looking at. I got him down to $6800!"

"Lila, that car was over 8 grand! How did you do that?"

"Gave him my phone number," she says, without laughing.

Fuck. There are some crazy guys out there. Things like that are dangerous.

"Oh, man."

"Well, actually, I didn't give him MY number, I gave him YOURS. I'm figuring the first time he calls you can pretend to be my dad and go off on him. That ought to make him leave me alone."

"You have learned well, grasshopper," I say.

Enter greaseball

It's Saturday morning.

They decide to release mom from the hospital. She is looking better than I have seen her in some time: Clean, rested, and with a little more meat on her bones.

The doctor makes mom promise to keep taking her medicine, and to get to a 12-step program. Mom agrees.

Mom rides with dad; Jenn and I ride together in my car. There's a lot of uncomfortable silence. Jenn didn't take it well when I told her about Lila.

"So, you're kissing me, and...touching me, and all the while you're in LOVE with someone else?" she says, curling her lip.

"We were fighting," I say.

"So you were just using me then," she says.

"No! I really do care about you, Jenn! It's just....weird, that's all."

No, it's not, but that might shut her up.

"Yeah, it is kinda weird," she says, finally. "I guess nothing was ever gonna become of it, right?"

"Well, isn't that illegal?" I ask. "I mean, if we ever wanted to get married or something."

Of course not. Well, not in most states. But if I say that, it will look like the only reason I wasn't more into her is because of the cousin issue.

"Yeah, I guess so," she says.

"Jenn, I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean for it to happen; it just happened!"

Wink, wink, guys.

"I know. It just kinda happens with us," she says.

"You've been SO great with mom - so incredible - I would feel awful if I drove you away somehow," I say, trying to look sincere.

She sighs. "It's ok, I guess."

That conversation took place last night, Friday, and today it still seems unresolved. She and I are not having one of the animated discussions that we usually have. She just stares out her window, brushing black curls out of her eyes.

"You ok?" I say, finally.

"It's just this whole rollercoaster. I was starting to think these crazy things."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like you and I being together. Like just going for it, no matter what anyone said. And I liked the idea!"

"But like you said, Jenn, our moms..."

"Oh, I know. They would never deal. But I was just kinda..daydreaming about it."

"Me too."

Nah. Not really.

**********

It's Monday. Ross calls me into his office (soon to be my office).

"Steve, Dan Johnson is on the phone," he says.

"Good morning sir."

"Good morning to you, sir," the speakerphone blares back, tinnily.

"Steve, as you have probably realized, there is going to be a position opening up here when you get promoted," Ross says.

"Right. My position," I say. "I have a few people in mind. There's Andrew from underwriting; he's been around for a while, and he knows so much about the industry-"

"Steve, moving you up to DM took a bit of....political capital," Dan says. "Do you know what political capital is?"

"You had to call in a few markers."

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Some people were uneasy about it. And, if we were to put yet another newbie into YOUR old job, well, that would cost us even MORE political capital."

Newbie?

Shit. It sounds like they want me to hire someone they hand-picked.

"I see. So who did you have in mind," I say.

"Dominick Marinelli," Dan says.

Dammit. Dominick is my counterpart on the west coast. He's about 10 years older than me, and has 20 years in the business. He's about 6 feet tall, and scarecrow skinny, with thinning brown hair, huge hazel eyes and swarthy skin. His clothes look like something out of an Armani ad, and he drives a Maserati, I think.

He's very successful with the ladies: Every time I see Dom at a convention, he's always bragging about some bimbo that he nailed the night before. I always say that guys who brag about it aren't really getting any, but in Dom's case I think he is.

He always talks in a silky-soft tone of voice, as if he were trying to seduce you, even if you are a man. You have to lean in to hear him. And he walks around drenched in cologne. Yeah, I know, I do that too, and I am (was) a skirt-chaser, too, but with the bragging and the soft-talking, Dom strikes me as a true greaseball. I get a very bad vibe from him. I get the sense he would do anything, step on anyone, to get ahead. I was always secretly glad I didn't work with him.

And now he's going to work for me.

".....a really great manager," Dan is saying. "Dominick runs a tight ship. I've already spoken to him about moving out your way, and he's very excited."

"You offered him the job?!" I say.

Am I in charge here or not, asshole?

"Steve, I don't mean to step on your toes. And if you tell me you really disagree with this choice, well, I'll let you decide. But Dominick is eminently qualified. EM-I-NENT-LY!" Dan says.

"You know what Bill Parcells says," I say. "If you want me to cook dinner, you've gotta let me buy the groceries. I'm going to be held responsible for the success or failure of this office, and that's as it should be. And I understand why this choice had a political component to it. But I would respectfully request that all future hiring decisions be left up to me."

"WELL put, Steve! Excellent!" Dan says. "Yes. Yes, of course!"

"For the record, I do believe Dom is very qualified," I say. "In fact, I'd like to call Dom and make the offer myself."

"Oh. Yes, of course," Dan says.

Tuesday, 10:00. Dom sweeps into our office, pulling his wheeled laptop mini-suitcase behind him, his big, gliding strides swallowing up the carpeted floor beneath him easily.

Work stops. Heads rise over cubicle walls. Hands cover mouths, hiding whispers. I walk out to meet him. "Dom!" I say, happily. We shake hands. He squeezes viciously, his white, easy smile never breaking. I squeeze back, just to keep him from breaking any bones.

We sit in my office, exchanging trivial details about travel and weather that neither of us care about.

"I should have gotten this DM job," Dom says.

I smile. What a fucking asshole.

"I mean, no offense to you, Steve, but I've been here a lot longer than you. And my record is just impeccable. I let Dan know I'm very unhappy about it."

Some people push the envelope whenever a new boss comes around. It's the substitute-teacher phenomenon: Our regular teacher is not here, so let's harass the new guy. Let's see if he's got the balls to stand up to us.

One order of balls, coming up.

"While we're baring our souls, Dom, let me tell you something. You weren't my first choice for this job, either. But you're there, and I'm here. And let me tell you, I am extremely enthusiastic for MY job. And I won't tolerate anything less than extreme enthusiasm in yours."

"Steve, I didn't mean-"

"If you didn't want the job, you didn't have to take it. I know you got a nice raise, and a bonus, for coming out here. But if you've decided you don't want to do it, tell me now. Otherwise, Dom, I don't want to hear about this again. Deal?"

"I didn't mean anything by it, Steve, I was just saying-"

"DEAL?" I say.

"Deal," he says.

Hi, my name is Steve, and I am completely pussy whipped

"What did you say?" Lila asks.

"You heard me," I smile.

A tear forms in the corner of her eye. She sniffles.

There is a long silence.

"Are you gonna say something," I say.

"Are you saying that just because we're fighting?" she says, finally.

Ah, shit.

"Lila, I've been fighting this for weeks. You've done so much for me. You've given me so much, you've been so understanding, so patient, you've been perfect. You make me so happy that I don't want to be anywhere else but with you. Anytime I'm not with you I can't wait to see you again. And I trust you totally. I would trust you with my life."

"But Steve, doesn't it bother you that you're so much older? I mean, what if you find some girl who's your own age?"

"Lila."

"Hm?"

"Shut up." I kiss her. It's a slow, passionate kiss. No tongue. I felt it would be inappropriate.

She looks at me. Her eyebrows are slightly raised, her mouth hangs open, her skin is pale white.

"You're scared," I say.

Silence.

"I'm scared too. Do you know how long it's been since I've opened myself up like this to anyone? But when I fell asleep next to you in the middle of the day..." I trail off.

"What?" she says.

"I just knew."

"Knew what?"

"Well, I knew I was....in love with you."

"What?" she says, beaming.

"Ahhh, Jesus. Here we go," I say.

"What?" she says, smiling even bigger.

"I LOVE you," I say. "There. Happy?"

"You do realize I'm gonna make you say that 15 times a day, right?" she says.

"No problem."

She hugs me. "Mmmmmmm," she purrs into my chest.

I get hard. I haven't had sex in what feels like forever. I pull back a little so she can't feel my erection. I don't want her to think that this is all about sex, because it's not. Wouldn't turn town a blow job, though.

"Don't make any plans for tonight," she says.

I can't get a reservation anywhere fancy on short notice, so we wind up at the Outback. It's our waitress's first day and we wait forever. So we order a bloomin' onion and we do the vodka-tonic / Sprite thing so Lila can drink a little.

Lila's feet keep bumping against mine under the table. She is staring at me and biting her lip. It's been over an hour with no food other than the onion.

I call the waitress over and tell her we can't wait any more.

"It's coming up in five minutes!" she says.

"It's too late. And tell the manager we have no intention of paying."

"Umm, ok."

We finish our drinks and get up to leave. A very tall man comes to our table.

"How ya doin', folks?" He says.

"Hungry," I say.

"I'm really sorry. There's no excuse for this. I'm gonna buy you dinner tonight," he says. "And if you stay, I'll buy you dessert too."

I think we've got dessert covered, pal. In fact, I think dinner is totally unnecessary at this point.

"Next time," I say, shaking his hand.

We are starving. There is a roadside ice cream place on the way to my house. "Let's stop here!" Lila says.

We sit in my car, eating sundaes. I hold out a spoonful of vanilla ice cream to her. She takes half the spoon in her mouth, then lets it out slowly, staring at me the whole time. That is one happy spoon.

"Let's go home," she says.

We're a mile away from my house when I see an old Buick broken down by the side of the road. An elderly man stands 20 feet away, his arms folded.

I pull over. "You ok," I shout.

I can't hear his reply. I get out and walk up to him.

"Flat tire," he says.

I hold out my phone. "You wanna call triple-A?"

"Already called 'em. They said it's gonna be two hours. I wouldn't mind, but it's damn cold out here."

A little chilly, yeah, but not that bad. This poor bastard is old and skinny.

"You gotta spare?" I say, finally.

"In the trunk."

I open the trunk and get the spare and the jack.

Lila gets out. "Can I help," she asks.

I jack up the car and pull the flat tire off. There is a roofing nail stuck inside.

I stand the spare tire up on the street next to me. We're on flat ground, and it won't go anywhere, right?

Wrong.

The tire wobbles down the road. Lila takes off after it, in her mermaid dress and platform soles. I watch in slow motion as she trips and falls on top of the tire.

She rolls it back to me, a brown, greasy stain crossing the front of her dress. "Got it!" she says, sheepishly. We laugh.

I replace the tire, lower the car, and tighten the lugs. "Lemme give ya some money fer that," the old man says, holding out a folded-up bill.

"It's my pleasure, sir," I say, waving my hand at him.

Back at home. Finally.

I turn the TV on and take off my shoes. We flop down on the couch, exhuasted.

I look at Lila. Her face is sweaty. There is a black grease stain on the tip of her nose. It's all I can do not to laugh.

"What's so funny," she says.

"Nothing."

"You know what?" she says.

"What."

"It's not a good thing chasing a spare tire when you're in clunky shoes and a tight dress," she says.

"And horny as hell?" I say.

"Horny as ALL hell."

"Uh-huh," I say, moving towards her.

"Say it," she says.

"I love.....ice cream?" I say. She laughs.

We kiss. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to have our faces so close together. "I love you baby," she says. "I MISSED you. I was MISerable."

"Me too."

We take our clothes off. Getting her out of her dress was harder than you might think, with its buttons, hooks, and zippers. "I think I'd rather change a tire," I say, laughing.

She's in a blue bra and white thong panties.

Sorry, honey, you don't match. Gonna have to deduct points for that.

She places her lips against mine, slowly. As her tongue enters my mouth, I taste the bloomin' onion and the ice cream. I don't care.

I reach behind her and one-hand her bra strap. Down her bra goes, exposing her full, round breasts. I run my hand over her nipple. It's firm, like a cherry.

She slides her panties off. My sex drive is out of control. All I can think about is fucking her. Now.

But I make myself wait. I'm going to make this one COUNT.

We move to the bedroom. She lays down on her back and opens her legs, looking up at me with her smoldering brown eyes. There are no words to describe how incredibly hot she is.

I lower myself on top of her, and rub my cock against her. She closes her eyes, panting. She is shaking.

I pull back a little and try to enter her, without touching it with my hand or even looking down.

I miss, and slide across the front of her pussy. A NICE miss.

I try again. This time, I make it. I feel her wetness all around me. She feels tighter than usual. It has been awhile, hasn't it?

I look down and watch myself slide in and out of her. Her pussy is hot; I can feel it. She wraps her legs around me, lifting her hips up to meet mine.

I lean back. I am standing on the floor now. Her entire pelvis is off the bed, her ankles locked behind me. And I start wailing away.

"You're hitting a really good spot," she breathes. She opens her eyes and stares at me.

I am just about to explode. No way I am doing that yet.

I pull out and turn her over to her stomach, her feet on the floor. Her hips are raised a little, her soft, pink vagina exposed to me, her long hair cascading down her back.

I enter her from behind. I grab onto her hips, gliding easily in and out of her.

I pull all the way out, then slide back into her without touching. Is there a better feeling than that? Don't think so...

I watch as she raises her hips and reaches between her legs to rub her clit.

She is panting.

I am shaking.

Yeah, this one's gonna leave a mushroom cloud.

She pushes her hips back against me. "Ohhhhhhhh, don't move, don't fucking move," she says.

She reaches back and grabs my hand, digging her nails into my flesh. "I'm cominnnnnng," she says breathlessly, almost whispering.

Stopping in mid-screw always slows me down a little. It takes a minute for me to get back to where I was. But now the orgasm is the size of a tidal wave.

I pull harder on her hips. The feel of her soft skin sends me right over the edge. I explode into her with a soft groan. And just like that, the cloud lifts. Suddenly, it hits me how much I have to be happy about: My job, my raise, my family, my house, my car. I am the luckiest guy in the world.

I hope I don't screw it up.

We lay on the bed, talking. She still has the grease on her nose. I don't care.

Tying up some loose ends

LOOSE END #1: Ross

All's NOT well that ends well.

Ross left that meeting intentionally; I am sure of it. And I don't like it.

I really want to speak to him about what happened, but if he knows that, he'll avoid me until it's time for him to move. Such a coward.

I have Ross's laptop in my office, because he wanted me to download his contact list. THAT'S my ticket.

Bonnie, Ross's secretary (soon to be mine, more on this in a moment) sticks her head in my door. "I need Ross's laptop," she says. It's 11:30.

"Tell Ross I need to see him first," I say.

"Is it something I can help with?"

"No."

"OK, Steve." Bonnie was at the meeting. She knows what's happening.

12:45. Bonnie ushers Ross into my office. He is standing next to my desk, looking at me. Bonnie closes the door. Ross looks back, confused.

I read somewhere that this is the ultimate power position: Seated at your desk, with someone looking down at you. It's like they are not worthy to sit in your presence. It does feel pretty powerful.

"Family emergency, huh?" I say.

"Barbara called me, right before the meeting. I couldn't get to you before we started. Sorry about the text message-"

"Tell me, Ross. What was it this time? Were you choosing a ceiling paint color? Or maybe curtains for the living room?"

"Steve, it was an emergency."

"BULLSHIT, Ross!" I am raising my voice, but I'm not angry. My emotions are totally in check, but I'm trying to scare him. It works. Ross takes a step backwards. "You fucking threw me under the bus. You KNEW someone was gonna give me shit about the insurance premiums. And you didn't want to deal with it. So you LEFT!"

"Yeah, Steve, it's all a conspiracy. It's the grassy knoll all over again. Get over yourself. You're not even in charge yet, and already you're on a power trip."

"I know what you did, Ross. How you went behind my back. What, you didn't think I'd find out?"

"I EARNED that promotion, Steve. TEN YEARS I worked here. I worked my ASS off. I earned it."

"Then why'd you have to backstab me to get it?"

"Fuck you, Steve." He walks past me and snatches his laptop, then turns and heads for the door.

"Hey, Ross," I say.

He turns and looks at me.

"Do NOT fuck with me again. Do you understand?"

He turns and leaves, slamming the door.

**********

LOOSE END #2: Mom

7:00, Friday. My brothers and I gather at dad's house with Jenny to discuss Mom's condition.

"Boys, your mother is very sick," dad is saying. "She's got a very advanced case of cirrhosis. The doctors are very concerned."

"Is she gonna die," Greg says.

"Without a transplant, yes," dad says. "And, unfortunately, she can't get on the transplant list until she's been sober for at least six months, and preferably more. Liver transplants are hard to come by, and they won't give her one if they think there's any chance it's going to be jeopardized by alcohol abuse."

"Can she survive that long without one," I say.

"Maybe. It depends on how well the medication works. She seems to be responding well to it, but it's only been a day."

I am somewhat relieved. At least she has a fighting chance. I don't like mom, but I do love her.

"Is she committed to getting sober," I say.

"She is today. But you know your mother," dad says.

"Is she getting out of the hospital soon?" Greg says.

"Tomorrow, hopefully. They want to see how well the medicine works and observe her for one more day."

"I think we should all say thank you to Jennifer," I say. "She was the one who noticed mom's symptoms and insisted that she see a doctor. So Jenn, I want you to know we really appreciate it."

Everyone says "Thank you" to Jennifer. She smiles. "I'm only too happy to help," she says. She has been so helpful and kind throughout the whole process. It occurs to me that she is going to make a great wife someday, to some guy who is not related to her.

"Boys, I think it's time we start dealing with the possiblity...."

"That she's not gonna make it?" says Chris.

"She's very sick," dad says.

**********

LOOSE END #3: Jennifer

I drive Jenn home from the family meeting. It's a long ride. We talk the whole way. Every once in a while I shoot a glance over at her. She is beautiful, absolutely stunning, with her long, black, shiny curls and pouty red lips.

We sit in her parking lot, the engine ticking. The talking stops. We look at each other.

"You have been so great, Jenn, really amazing," I say.

"It's no problem," she says absently. We are both thinking about something else. What is going to happen? Am I going to kiss her? Is this the day we finally get naked and fuck each other's brains out?

I kiss her. It's the barely-touching, impossibly-soft Jennifer kiss that drives me insane.

"You are gonna make some guy a great wife someday," I say.

She squints at me. "Where did THAT come from?"

"As much as I love being with you, and as much as I would love to keep hooking up with you..."

"You don't want to anymore," she says.

"I'm in love with someone else."

There. I said it.

**********

LOOSE END #4: Lila

Shortly after 11am, Friday (I know, I am slightly out of chronological order. Deal.)

Lila appears in my office. She is wearing a stretchy, grey, form-fitting cotton dress. She's just as curvy as a Victoria's Secret model.

"Steve, that was a great speech," she says, smiling. She's been wearing her sadness like a mask for the past few days. It's gone now.

"Thanks, Lila!"

"I'm......I'm..proud of you," she says.

My heart soars. Could this be a reconciliation? Even with all the good news of the past few weeks, there's been a pall over me, like a dark cloud that never quite blows away. I can't fully enjoy anything, because I have not resolved things with Lila.

"Lila, I need to speak to you. Can you close that," I say, pointing my chin towards the door.

She closes the door and sits down.

"Lila, you've been my secretary for a long time, and you've done a great job. And my first choice was to have you as my secretary after the promotion..."

She sits up in her chair.

"But the fact is, Bonnie has been an executive secretary for 10 years. And there's a lot involved in working for a DM. I want you to train with her, learn what she does. You know how I feel about learning new things on the job-"

"mm-hmm. If you want to earn more, you have to learn more," she says. I say that all the time.

"Exactly! So, you'll work closely with Bonnie in the next few months. But I'm going to have you stay as the admin assistant for the operations manager, whoever that happens to be."

"Who WILL it be?"

"There are a few people I have in mind. But I have a feeling Dan Johnson will want something to say about it."

"OK."

We look at each other. We have a lot to talk about.

"Thanks for the flower," she says.

"What flower," I smile.

She smiles and stares at my paperweight, avoiding my eyes.

"Can you ever forgive me," I say.

"You really hurt me, Steve. And I just keep thinking that..."

"What?"

"That if I get back together with you, you'll hurt me again. And I just love you too much. It would KILL me!"

"So you don't trust me, is what you're saying."

"NO! I just...don't think you're ready."

"So that's it? YOU'RE telling ME I'm not ready? What qualifies you to say that?"

"I KNOW you, Steve. I just get this feeling that you're always plotting and scheming, like you've always got something going on behind my back that I don't know about."

Damn. Good call!

"Thanks, Lila."

She sighs in frustration. "Ahh, Steve, you just don't get it!" she says. "I'll talk to you later. I'll call you." She gets up from her chair and heads for the door.

"Hey," I say softly, getting up.

"WHAT?" She turns to look at me, bottom lip jutting outward in the prettiest pout you've ever seen.

"I love you," I say.

Behold! The Mildly Unwell Boutique is now open!!

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If you buy a Steverino shirt, please send a picture of yourself in it. I will make a special page for the pictures when they start coming in. I have a feeling there are going to be some very interesting ones...

And now, back to our regularly scheduled blog.

**********

Friday, August 27

My promotion does not take effect until September 15, and it was only officially publicly announced today. But the rumor machine was ahead of the curve, and it's been a nonstop conga line of complaints, requests, and Godfather-style ring kissing into my office since several days before that.

The complaints fall into a few general categories:

1. Ross was unresponsive / didn't follow through on promises or deadlines that he set for himself;
2. Staff is overworked / not enough administrative support;
3. Ross is unappreciative of the employees and all they do.

I agree with all of the claims, except possibly #2.

There is a company meeting scheduled for today at 10:00, when we'll discuss the transition.

I prepare a speech for the meeting. Whenever I am making a presentation, I make an outline of what I am going to talk about. Seeing "IV. The past year's success" on a piece of paper is enough to jog my memory; then I can speak about it extemporaneously, and not sound too rehearsed. When I practice a speech, I don't try to memorize it word for word; I just try to remember the various topics. I think it sounds more natural that way.

9:55. Ninety or so employees are getting settled in our meeting room. It's hard to believe I supervise these dozens and dozens of people, or soon will, anyway.

10:00 sharp. People are still shifting around in their seats, clearing their throats, and smoothing their skirts. I have been pestering Ross to start exactly at 10:00, though. He steps up to the podium.

"Thank you all for being here," he begins. "Our very punctual new leader has informed me it's 10:00, so let's begin."

Chuckles.

"As most of you know," Ross begins, "I've been given an opportunity at our home office for a brand new position, and I actually begin work there on the 15th. My wife and I are very excited about moving, and yeah, a little overwhelmed, but also very happy. It's also a very sad time, because I know I won't be working with all of you anymore, and these last 10 years have been some of the best ones of my life.

Barbara and I don't have any kids of our own, but I've shared the joy of many of your children coming into the world, I've seen your kids get married, I've seen many of YOU build your careers and get promoted. And it's been really memorable.

It's hard to start over," he says, pensively. "It's hard to start over at my age. But I really felt this was the right thing to do. And it was an easy decision, knowing that there was someone so competent waiting in the wings to take over for me." He smiles over at me.

"Like I said, I don't have kids of my own, and Steve, you've been like a son to me. You've always been there for me when I needed you, and yes, when I'm wrong, you call me on it, like a good son should. Although you still act like a rebellious teen at times...."

Laughter.

"Since you'll be taking over these meetings, Steve, I'd like to hand the podium to you. Ladies and gentlemen, your new district manager."

Applause fills the room. I even hear a couple of "whoo-HOOOO's"!

I step up to the podium. I had left my notes on it earlier so I wouldn't be seen carrying papers in hand as I walked up. I believe small details like that are important.

I shake Ross's hand. He hugs me. There is a loud "AWWWWWW" from the audience.

"Thanks Dad, I mean, Ross," I say into the microphone.

Laughter and applause.

"This is going to be a very easy speech," I say. "I have one person to thank. And that's you, Ross."

Light applause.

"I was a relatively inexperienced kid who had ambition, and a love of the industry, but not much else. And you took a chance on me because you saw something that others did not see. I can honestly say that, were it not for you, I wouldn't be here, Ross."

More applause.

My BlackBerry goes off. I ignore it.

"One thing you will learn about me is, I am a man of my word," I say. "As Ross mentioned, today's meeting was supposed to start at 10, and it started at 10. We told you the meeting would last an hour, and I pledge that it won't go longer than that. Those of you who have worked with me can vouch for that."

A few heads nod.

"I want to say something," I continue. "I'm not here to rescue this division. I'm not here to solve any huge problems. Are we perfect? No. But this division is healthier than it's ever been. I'm here to maintain that and build on it-"

From the corner of my eye, I see Ross stand up and surreptitiously leave the room. What the hell?

But I'm in the middle of a speech, and when you are speaking, you are creating a kind of... mood. And that mood is destroyed pretty easily by leaving the podium, losing your place, or otherwise interrupting the speech. I don't dare step back and ask Ross where he is going. And he knows it.

Then it occurs to me: Maybe it was Ross on my BlackBerry. I sneakily detatch the unit from my belt and place it on the podium. I'll look at it when I can, I think.

"As your division manager, I want to accomplish three things," I say. First, I want to establish trust and rapport with all of you. That started today, at this meeting. I want you all to know that I am worthy of your trust. And I don't want you to just BELIEVE that because I say so; I want to PROVE it to you."

I look down at my BlackBerry. It's Ross. "Family emergency -have to go," it says.

"Secondly, I want to conduct a review of everyone's position in this office, and document our procedures thoroughly. We've got a policy and procedure manual now, and a lot of people don't know this, but it was written before we had PC's in this office. There's literally no reference to computers in the entire manual, and right now, in 2004, our entire industry depends on them."

Some heads shake incredulously. I really want to sell this point, because "documenting procedures" makes people nervous. They think some auditor is going to find out that they can be replaced by a machine, or some bespectacled geek in Walla Walla, Washington.

"And thirdly, and this is related to the other two, I want to increase our revenue in this office by 10% in the next 365 days."

A gasp fills the room. We have increased our revenue about 40% in the past year; we are the most profitable division in the country. No one can stop talking about it. And now I'm telling them I want more. I suddenly get the distinct impression that some people are angry.

"Yeah, it's a big goal," I say. "But how are we supposed to afford chocolate milk in the water fountains without it?"

More laughs.

Suddenly a woman stands up amidst the sea of chairs. It's Barbara from accounting. All heads in the room whip around to face her.

"What are you gonna do about our health insurance," she demands.

And just like that, the mood I had built is gone. Interrupting a speech is very rare. It happens, but whoever does it has to be plenty pissed off.

"Our health insurance?" I ask.

"Our premiums went up by over $100 a month," she says. "We keep hearing how much money this office is making; why don't you use some of that money to pay some of that?"

"Yeah!" say 10 or 15 people.

It occurs to me that Ross has not had a company meeting since May, when the premiums went up. He didn't want all the employees in one place together, because he knew someone was going to bring it up.

Family emergency, my ass.

I don't work for Ross anymore. He's going to hear from me about this one, and I'm not going to be nice about it. Bastard.

I remember the health insurance issue. We have one employee whose husband had cancer, and another who had gastric bypass surgery. The latter had severe complications and almost died; his hospital bill was over $250,000. Our rates went to the moon.

Ross made a decision to pass the entire increase on to the employees. I begged him to call a company meeting to discuss it, but he said no. Instead, he had memos inserted into all the paychecks.

"You know," I say. "As many of you have read, health insurance premiums are out of control all across the country. Last May, we looked around at competitors, and you know what? Our current provider was not out of line with what the others are charging. Which only makes sense, because no one in this business would charge more than the market will bear."

As I always say, if you don't like the question you are asked, answer a different one. She didn't ASK about the industry, but that's what I'm talking about.

"FINE!" says Barbara. "It's expensive. So why not pay some of it?"

There's a bit of nervous laughter.

So much for changing the subject.

I've got to be careful here. If I continue to let Barbara interrupt, it's going to look bad. I've got to assert some authority, especially now during my first speech; if I don't, it will set a very bad example.

"Sit down, Barbara," I say, firmly. She does.

I wait ten seconds for the room to quiet.

"When I was about 10 years old," I begin, "I went to my dad, on a Monday, and asked him for a dollar to buy a comic book. And then, a few days later, on Thursday, I asked him for FIVE dollars to buy another comic book. He said, 'Why five dollars? The comic book is only one'!, and I said, 'Because you get paid on a Thursday and I know you have more money today!'," I say.

The audience laughs. I think I've got them back now.

"It's easy to say, 'The division had a very good year, so you ought to pay more of our premiums.' And by the way, I pay those premiums too," I say. "But think of it this way: If I pay you $20,000 a year, and another $1,200 on your health premiums, which is what we pay now, that's $21,200 that the company is paying you. That's the COST of employing you. So the premium goes up, and we eat the premium. Now, instead of paying you $21,200, we're paying you $22,400. We've basically given you a raise.

Can we afford it? Maybe. But what about the employees who are NOT on the health insurance? Is that fair to them? Now THEY can come to me and say, 'hey, you gave those guys a raise, now we want one too. And what about the other divisions? Some of them didn't do as well as we did. What if THEIR employees see what we are doing, and demand the same thing? They'd probably have to lay off 3 or 4 people to match us.

We give raises here, but we give them in January. And we award them based on merit. Not expenses that are out of our control. Of course, we continually monitor the market to make sure we're not overpaying, but high premiums are an unfortunate fact of life.

Now, back in 2001, we DIDN'T have such a good year. We actually LOST money that year. And we didn't ask any of you pay MORE, did we? I don't think we want to go down this road."

Silence.

I close out the meeting with seven minutes to spare. And I think I just answered my first challenge as DM.

**********

They decided to keep mom overnight at the hospital to run some more tests. She is fit to be tied. But she's been much more reasonable since she sobered up.

12:10. My phone rings. It's dad.

"Steve," he says. "Your mother needs a liver transplant."

"Little Cocksucker" and other terms of endearment

"Little cocksucker."

That was mom's nickname for me.

She's been a drunk for as long as I can remember. Bourbon, mostly, but she also drinks wine, beer, and pretty much anything else with alcohol in it. When mom comes over, I hide the NyQuil and the paint thinner.

Mom has a bad temper. And I'm not just talking about your average bad temper. I'm talking vein-popping, eyebrow-furrowing, teeth-baring, red-faced, spit-flying, shreiking-at-the-top-of-her-lungs bad temper. When she gets angry, she reminds me of someone who is in need of an exorcism.

She's a small woman, maybe 5'3" and 110 pounds, with hollow, deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks. But she has the worst temper of anyone I've ever met. She's not the loudest, or the strongest, but she's the meanest. And when I was growing up, the worst part about mom was her unpredictability. She'd go for days, or weeks, at a time without one outburst; we kids could put a baseball through the window, and she'd just sweep the glass and tape the window, smiling all the while, and the next day I could drop a spoon on the kitchen floor, and she'd rip out a clump of my hair.

When mom was out of control, we just ran away. Out the door, down the street, anywhere but where she was. If we got away, we could let her cool off for two hours, and were usually all set. But sometimes she caught us. And when she did, pretty much anything was fair game: She'd slap, punch, pull hair, kick, scratch, and throw things, cursing all the way.

It was like clockwork: During holiday get-togethers, with a house full of aunts and uncles, mom would always find a reason to crack me across the mouth at the dinner table, in front of everyone.

The worst beating I ever got was when I was 11. Mom was supposed to be home to meet us boys when we got home from school each day, but she never was; if we were lucky, she'd get back around 6:00 and make us dinner. If we weren't lucky, we'd eat peanut butter and jelly in front of the TV.

Mom always told me to leave her stereo system alone. But the batteries on my Walkman had run out, or something, and I really wanted to listen to my Beatles tape.

Figuring she wouldn't be home for hours, I pop the cassette into her tape deck and groove along with "Dear Prudence" and "Back in the USSR".

In mid-"Twist and Shout," John Lennon's voice speeds up, chipmunk-style, and my heart skips a beat. I know what that sound means. I press the eject button, and my stomach sinks in horror as I see the contents of the tape unravelled everywhere, a thin, brown, shiny snake twisting around every capstan, wheel and pulley.

My fat fingers work furiously to untangle the tape as I shoot nervous, panting glances at the door, praying mom doesn't come home.

The doorknob shakes. The door opens. Mom stands there.

She stares at me for a moment, her mouth open.

"You little cocksucker.....you LITTLE COCKSUCKER!!!!" she screams, diving at me.

I turn to run. Too slow. She grabs my shoulder and spins me around, slapping me across the cheek. Her nails scratch me, leaving three thin bloody streaks. I cry out in pain.

"What did I tell you? WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU, YOU NO GOOD LITTLE SHIT!!!" She throws me to the floor, and I watch in mute terror as she removes her flip-flop and hits me with it, full-force, across the back of my neck, making a high THWACK! sound. Then she hits me again. And again, and again, until finally the sandal breaks in two, the top half dropping harmlessly to the floor. My neck throbs and stings, like a bad sunburn.

I lay on the floor, whimpering like a scared puppy, curled into a ball, my quivering hands in front of my face. "Please mom, please stop..."

"Little fucking cocksucker," she says, almost to herself. She grabs me by the hair and turns me over on my back.

Then she puts her cigarette out on my forearm. I am screaming.

I still have the scar.

A few minutes later, (I assume after changing her shoes) she storms out the door and doesn't come back for hours.

Dad usually got home from work around 8:30. Tonight, dad sees the scratches on my face, and the burn on my arm. He doesn't say a word; he just cleans them with alcohol and antibiotic ointment, hugs me and tells me it will be better soon.

Late that night, I am awakened by screaming.

I turn over. It's 11:22 by the bedside digital clock. I remember it like it was yesterday.

"Don't you EVER touch him again, you hear me?!" dad is saying. "You're out of control. You are OUT of fucking control!"

"You don't have any idea how hard it is," mom says. "I got three goddamn kids to take care of, and you're god knows where! It must be nice to have a little peace and quiet!"

"I'M the one earning the money, Louise. YOU'RE the one drinking it up!"

"Fuck you, you lousy son of a bitch!" I hear grunting and jostling, as if she is attacking him.

"Never again! You hear me?" dad is saying. "You touch him again, and I'll fucking kill you with my bare hands!"

I cry softly into my pillow. Dad never gets angry. I know you might not believe it now, but he is a really gentle person. I don't think he could ever hurt mom; I think he was just trying to scare her. He was definitely scaring me.

Mom never hit me again.

I don't want revenge. I don't want mom to "find out how it feels". I don't want to beat her up or scream at her. I just want her to leave me alone. For a long time, I have known what is best for me, and mom usually impedes that somehow. I'm better off with her not in my life, at least not as a parent.

She left home not too long after that incident, and part of me was sad to see her go. But I was also overjoyed. Even at 11, I knew that life would be more stable without her. I wouldn't have to shrink in fear as I walked through the front door and saw mom at the kitchen table, drinking hard liquor from a beer stein.

Leaving home was probably the only good parenting decision mom has ever made.

**********

It's Thursday. Mom's appointment is at 11:00. I meet Jenny at her mother's place at 9:30.

Mom is drunk. She's wearing a torn housedress of faded flowers and pale blue bathroom slippers that used to be fuzzy. Her hair is twisted into a sloppy bun, held in place with a chewed-up pencil.

"Aunt Louise," Jenn says, "Steve and I are really concerned about you. You're pretty jaundiced, and you seem very tired lately...."

"Jennifer, you're a nice girl," mom says, "but you dunno what you're talkin' about."

"Aunt Louise, you've been drinking a lot lately-"

"NEVER MIND my drinkin'," mom says, sneering.

This is stupid. Time to rip off the band-aid. "Mom, we're taking you to the doctor. Now."

"The hell you are!" she says, matter-of-factly.

My expression doesn't change. "Mom, one way or another, you're going. We're not leaving until you do, so you might as well-"

She lunges at me, her face contorted into a hideous mask of evil. I jump.

She puts a finger in my face. "You don't tell me what to do, you little son of a bitch!"

Don't you mean "Little Cocksucker"?

"I'm the mother here! I'M the mother! Not you! You don't tell me what the hell I can and cannot do..."

She is teetering in place, as if struggling to keep her balance.

"I do when you're killing yourself, mom. You have a family who cares about you, and we're gonna help you even if you don't want us to."

"If I wanna kill myself, it's MY goddamn business! No one else's!"

"It wouldn't take long," says Jenn. "The doctor is expecting us-"

"Just shut your mouth, honey," mom snaps. "Now you two get the hell outta here, because I'm not going anywhere!"

She storms off to a bedroom and slams the door; I hear the pop of the door lock.

Suddenly, classical music blares loudly from the room. One hundred twenty decibels is fine for Led Zeppelin; for Mozart, it's just creepy.

We wait. Five minutes go by, and the music continues, as loud as ever.

I bang on the door. "Mom, we're not leaving!"

Nothing.

I open the thin, gray metal cover mounted to the wall next to the kitchen, exposing the circuit breakers for the apartment. I find the one at the top marked "MAIN", and pull down hard on it.

Lights flick off. The refrigerator stops running. Digital clocks go dark. The music stops.

"jesus fucking christ!" we hear wafting faintly from mom's room.

I grab mom's purse off the kitchen chair, and again approach her door.

"Mom, if you don't come out, I'm not turning the power on. And I've got your purse, with all your drinking money in it."

"Gimme back my purse NOW!"

"You'll get it after your doctor's appointment!"

The door opens, slowly.

**********

Mom is sweet as pie to Dr. Patel; apparently, she thinks she can charm her way out of whatever tests he wants to run. "So doya have any kids?" she asks nervously as she lays down on the examination table.

Dr. Patel conducts a full examination. At several points, I look at Jenny and she is grimacing. Mom is not doing well, I gather.

"I vood like to doo a SEEtee scan," says Dr. Patel. He's got a very thick accent.

"A CITY scan?" says mom.

"No, a C.T. scan," says Jenn. "They want to take a picture of your liver to see if there's any internal damage."

"Ve also need to take a blood sample," he says.

"Oh GOD," mom says.

There are two cancellations for CT scans later today. We convince mom to take the earlier one.

"Steve, can I see you oustide," Jenn says.

We huddle a few steps past the door. "From what I could see, the exam went really bad. I think she's worse than I thought."

"Really?"

"They might not even let her out of the hospital."

"You mean they're going to admit her?"

"Maybe. It depends on the results of the CT scan. But it's possible she's going to need a transplant."

"OK."

"Steve, I think you better call your dad."