About that happy ending...

Tuesday, August 22, 2006, 5:45pm
Steve and Tim's house

"That's incredible," Tim shrieks. "You did it! You did it!"

"I can't believe it," I say.

"So, when do you start?"

"I told him I might need a month. He was okay with that. I haven't formally accepted yet."

"Why?"

"I had to talk to you first."

"Thank you, honey. Now take it!"

"Don't you have any questions?"

"Are you going to be travelling a lot? I don't want you getting stressed out."

"I might have to go to Thailand once every spring or summer. They'll pay for you to come with me, but only once a year."

"So if you go more than once a year and I want to come, we'd have to pay?"

"Yep. But I want you to."

Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Steve's office

This phone call is going to be fun. I've never spiked a football, but I bet it feels a lot like this.

"Steve, what have you learned today?"

"Actually, this phone call is about teaching you something, Dan."

"Hm?"

"I've decided to resign. I'd like my last day to be Friday, September 15."

Silence.

"Steve, I thought we had gotten past this."

"And now you see that we haven't. Right? This is the right move for me, for my health and sanity."

"Steve, it's career suicide. Career suicide, Steve!"

Big shots like Dan love to repeat themselves. They think they are so brilliant that, if they say something and it does not have the intended effect, they simply say it again, as if the only possible problem is that we didn't hear.

I knew he was going to regurgitate the "career suicide" bit, and I have an answer ready--actually, it's more like a story. And telling a story is exactly what Dan Johnson would do in my situation.

Shit! Am I turning into this guy?

"Did I ever tell you about Craig, my next-door neighbor?" I ask.

"I beg your pardon?"

"He lives next door to me. He's an avid jogger. Every morning, he jogs up a hill on a street adjacent to ours. There's heavy tree cover on either side of the road, no sidewalk. It's a narrow road, poor visibility, very unsafe. No way he should be jogging there."

"What's the point, Steve?"

"I asked him why he jogs there. He says it's the steepest incline in the area. He loves the workout he gets jogging up that hill, and he hates treadmills. His resting heart rate is in the 40's. He brags about it! And you know what I told him?"

"What?"

"I said, in the morgue, everyone has a heart rate of zero."

He chuckles.

"It doesn't matter how great the workout is; the cost is too high. He's risking his life jogging up that road. One day, he's going to get hit by a truck and die."

"Cost-benefit," he says softly.

"Yes. The cost outweighs the benefit. It doesn't matter what this job has to offer me. There are too many consequences for staying here."

Could I be convincing him this easily?

He breathes deeply. That means a speech is coming. Shit.

"That's a wonderful story, Steve. Your point is well thought out. But this is not a matter of life or death. You're not playing in traffic; you're leaving a lucrative job with a promising future at a Fortune 500 company. The sky is the limit for you, Steve."

"Dan--"

"Steve, other men do your job. Lesser men. Men who are less talented, who have less energy."

Ah, I see. So I'm a lazy slug!

"What are you saying, exactly, Dan?"

"I'm saying try harder."

"I'm done, Dan."

"Try. Harder."

"September 15, Dan. That's the date. I would advise you to have a replacement ready."

"Steve--"

Click.

Friday, August 25, 2006, 6:55PM
Steve and Tim's house

Dan calling, my phone says.

It's not unusual for Dan to call me after hours, but I have a bad feeling nonetheless. We haven't spoken since I hung up on him Wednesday, and I have been expecting a lecture.

"Good evening, Steven."

This is not the after-hours Dan Johnson, who makes bad jokes and asks what I've learned today. This is Dan Johnson, businessman, who makes million-dollar decisions while sitting on the toilet.

"Hello, Dan." I don't ask how he is doing, or what I can do for him. I ask nothing, so he has no segue into what he wants to talk about. I have no intention of making this easy.

"Steve, I need to talk to you." It's the voice he uses in the boardroom, and with customers. Whatever he has to say, it's not good.

"I have a few minutes," I say.

"Steve, I hate to say this to you, because you know how I feel about you. But, sometimes past mistakes can come back to haunt you when you least expect it."

As opposed to those future mistakes that come back to haunt me?

"What mistakes?"

He takes a breath. "Steve, I trust you are well aware of our fraternization policy."

Yes, I violated the policy, with Lila. I probably violated the policy 150 times. And I confessed as much to Dan himself, two years ago, back when I was a rubber-kneed, babytalking, lovesick doofus, and could not have cared less if I was fired or not, as long as I could lay down next to Lila at night and be blissfully intoxicated by her green apple-scented shampoo. After I confessed, the whole thing went away. There were no consequences. I knew it was too easy.

But why is he bringing this up now? Does he want to fire me? Why bother? I'm quitting!

Maybe he wants to destroy my career by letting this information slip out. But, as I've already admitted, my career might be over already, and I'm not sure that spreading this kind of story about me would be worth the risk.

Maybe it's a bargaining chip, I think.

"What are you getting at, Dan?" I bark, discarding any sense of decorum I was pretending to have.

"Dating a subordinate is a serious offense. It exposes the entire company, Steve, all of us. Our livelihood, our--"

"I get the point," I say. I'm in no mood for an academy-award winning speech.

"The point is," he says, "that dating a subordinate is expressly forbidden by company policy. And if we were to ever find out that it happened, it would be grounds for immediate termination. For both parties."

That son of a bitch. If I insist on quitting, he's going to conveniently find out about my relationship with Lila from two years ago, and fire us both. I am leaving anyway, but Lila has no plans to quit. She's been doing a great job for us, and has a bright future. Dan knows I won't want her termination on my head.

"So this is what you're being reduced to, Dan? Blackmail? You're going to blackmail me into working for you?"

"She's a good employee, Steve. It would be a damn shame if we had to fire her. And it would be a shame to lose you, too. The company won't be the same without you. Your employees need you, and the company needs you. Just promise me you'll think about it."

"Yeah, I'll think about it. And maybe I'll stay, and maybe I won't. But either way, I've lost all respect for you as a human being. As far as I am concerned, you don't exist to me anymore. I'm sure you don't care about that, but I need you to know it anyway. I used to look up to you, and now..."

"You're angry now, Steve. Take some time to cool off. Go for a long drive and think it over. Someday you will thank me."

"I doubt it."

"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, I'm free at last!"

Being the resourceful fellow that I am, as soon as I made the decision to leave my company, I told everyone I knew that I was looking, and asked if there was anyone they knew of who I could speak to. Their responses fell into three major categories:

1. "You're the big hotshot: Why are you asking me?"
2. "I don't know of any job openings in that area."
3. "Why don't you look in the newspaper / go to monster.com / call a recruiter?"

Notice that none of these answer my question, which was simply if I could have a few contact names. Frustrating? You bet. But, rather than alienate them by reminding them how stupid they are, I merely repeated the question, slower, until I got an answer--which was usually, "Nope, don't know anyone."

Conventional wisdom says that you don't look for jobs in the newspaper, or online, because everyone is looking there. You must network, the experts say, and find jobs that are not listed on websites, so as to reduce your competition. Sure, it makes some sense, but nonetheless, I posted my resume on Monster, and Careerbuilder, and received daily email updates on new jobs. Then I spent every free moment calling contacts, reading job descriptions, and waiting.

Monday, August 14, 2006

I see an interesting job on Monster, and before applying, I tweak my online resume to highlight my relevant experience. In so doing, I changed a few keywords. Over the next three days, something amazing happened.

Recruiters called me. A lot of recruiters. The keywords I had added apparently were exactly what some of them were searching for, and by the end of the week, I had four interviews lined up. It was like guessing a password that opened a vault.

I had to explain repeatedly why I was leaving such a high-level position, and why I was willing to go elsewhere for less money, if necessary. I explained that my personal life was important, that the amount of work was oppressive and that it didn't figure to improve anytime soon. I got my share of skeptical looks after this explanation, as if I had actually gotten caught screwing the boss's wife.

I was phone-screened and interviewed. I found myself telling the same few "work stories" repeatedly, when asked about my abilities as a manager. I like talking to people, and I sure didn't mind the ego boost of reliving what I have accomplished.

If I was reading their faces right, most of the interviewers were very impressed with me, but one by one, they turned me down. "We went with another candidate." "Your experience doesn't quite fit our company." "This job would not be challenging enough for you." "It doesn't pay enough."

That last one really bothered me. I was truly willing to take a pay cut, if it meant I would have my life back. But you can't just walk up to an employer and say, "I'm desperate. Give me whatever you want!"

"I'm getting a job anyway," Tim said. "If the offer seems reasonable, take it. We'll get by." She's more or less dumped her catering business and is trying to find a job as a chef at a restaurant. Funny thing about that: No one will hire a woman chef. Sure, these same guys who won't hire a woman probably go home and eat their wives' cooking every night, but they somehow still think women are incompetent to cook for a living. But that's another story.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Looking for a job can be full-time work in itself. Along with the job I already have, I won't be able to keep up this pace forever. When I'm too exhausted to keep looking, then what?

Today I have a meeting with a disgruntled client. They are so frustrated that they asked for Dan Johnson himself to come out and meet with them, but Dan called and convinced them that I could respond to all of their concerns, and that he would follow up with me personally afterwards. Dan has a gift: He can blow you off and somehow still make you feel special.

Dom takes a seat at the boardroom table across from me, and two of our colleagues sit at opposite corners, fidgeting noticeably.

Dom and I have been through this too many times before to be nervous. I find that, if I know someone is going to let loose on me, it's never that bad, because I'm ready for it. It's when I get ambushed that it goes poorly.

You might as well never be nervous for something like this. The worst that could happen is that you don't know an answer. So just be ready for that! Figure out what you're going to say if you honestly don't know something--but try and avoid answers like "I have no earthly idea." People are very understanding, as long as you don't look like a moron.

I like to question people to death when they are badgering me. Keep clarifying, and restating, and taking notes until they lose motivation. They can't stay at maximum pissing rate for long.

Bert, our client's CEO, strides briskly into the boardroom, slamming a heavy pile of books on the table. Several people jump in their seats, startled.

"Steve, right?" He says, looking at me.

"Yes sir," I say, rising and offering my hand.

"That's okay," he says, waving me off. "Just so you all know, I don't sit for meetings. I don't sit for anything. There's no chair in my office," he pauses, scanning the room to see if we believe him.

"You don't have a chair--" Dom begins.

"I injured my back skiing 20 years ago. It hurt to sit down, so I worked standing up. I've been doing it ever since. I use a cordless headset for my phone, and my computer is on a podium. A business magazine came in here and did a story on me," he adds proudly.

"My girlfriend would appreciate that," I say. "She owns a catering business, and she never gets to sit--"

"She doesn't get to sit," Bert says, straightening his cuffs. "Interesting. Not to cut you off, but my time is very valuable, and we need to cover a few things today. With me, you get it straight, and I want you to know that our account is in jeopardy. Are you willing to work to retain our business?"

"Yes," Dom and I say.

"Three hundred fifty-six thousand, two hundred twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents," Bert says, writing the number on a dry-erase board behind him, in six-inch-high digits. "That's what we spent on premiums with you last year. Did you do three hundred fifty-six thousand, two hundred twelve dollars and thirty-eight cents worth of work?" he asks, and all eyes turn to me. So much for spreading my team out.

"I have your policies in front of me," I say, slowly, opening my folder. It's strictly for effect; I've memorized the numbers. "Do me a favor; write a number underneath that one."

He uncaps the marker and looks at me.

"Twenty-eight million," I say.

He writes the number.

"Now write thirty-five thousand." He does.

"We insure this building, your company's vehicles, we insure you against employee dishonesty and theft, we even insure you as an executive, Bert, in case you go skiing again."

The group explodes in laughter, but I get the impression that it's as much about me diffusing the tension as it is about being funny.

"I'm using rough figures, but you see the point. As an insurance company, it's our job to protect you against unfortunate contingencies. Your company is a good risk, so we cover you. For that three hundred fifty thousand, we assume twenty-eight million dollars in risk. Twenty-eight million," I repeat, and it's scary how much I sound like Dan Johnson.

"The thirty-five thousand figure represents the portion of your payments that are used to cover our expenses. It's about ten percent; very low for this industry, but you're a long-standing customer and we don't believe in huge fee increases. It's my job to use that thirty-five thousand to pay my employees, to cover time and materials, underwriting, and any other overhead. Did we do thirty-five thousand dollars' worth of work last year? I guarantee it. I wouldn't be surprised if it was fifty thousand worth of work--but that's my problem, not yours."

The room falls silent. Whatever vitriol he had whipped up among his team is gone. Now, we can have a civil discussion.

The rest of the meeting was uneventful. We ran down the client's list of issues and assigned most of them to our customer service manager. We scheduled a thirty-day follow-up call, at which point all issues should be resolved.

After the meeting, I gather my papers and walk toward the door. "I need to speak to you privately," Bert says, placing a hand on my elbow.

"Is your resume on Monster?" he asks, as we retreat to a side hallway. "I believe I saw it there."

"Yes."

"Are you looking?"

I'd better be careful here. Dan knows I am looking, but if it gets back to him that I admitted that to a customer...

"I would be willing to consider a move if the right opportunity came along," I say, diplomatically.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna call your boss," he laughs.

He withdraws his BlackBerry. "Are you free next Tuesday at three?"


Tuesday, August 22, 2006, 3:00PM
Bert's office

"I need you to coordinate our implementations," Bert says, squeezing the sides of his lectern and rocking it idly from side to side. "You'll supervise a small development team in Asia, as well as a couple of implementation consultants here."

The company is not exactly in the insurance business, but they make software that many insurance companies use. The job calls for thorough industry knowledge, as well as technical savvy and management ability. It's an unusual skill set, and Bert has been trying to fill the position for months.

"I probably can't pay you what you're getting now," he says, and waits for my reply.

We talk salary. We're not as far apart as he thinks we are. Evidently, my company wasn't paying me shit.

He makes me an offer on the spot. It's $4,000 less than I make today.

"Increase it by $5,000, and I'll say yes right now," I say. Wouldn't it be something if I ended up getting an increase in salary out of this?

"Twenty-five hundred is the best I can do."

"Deal." We shake hands.

And that, my friends, is how I got out of a shitty job for the low low price of $1,500 a year.

Friday again!

Hello all, sorry it's been a while since I've posted.

I read your comments to my IM post, and I freely admit that the gag-factor was high, and I deserved a ration of ball-breaking. But come on, guys, tell me that you have never gotten all coochie-coochie-coo with your gf's, especially after a fight, when you know you're going to be laying some good pipe as soon as she gets home...

All is well here, and I'll try to post more updates this weekend so I can get caught up. I would have done so this week, but I came up with a great idea and I've been working on it for days.

Remember the "choose-your-own-adventure" books? It turns out that there are some online / iPod versions around, and I decided to try my hand at writing one. Of course, being the kill-a-flea-with-a-sledgehammer type of guy that I am, it was not enough to just crank out the normal five-page-pamplet-size stories that you usually see; mine is up to about 7,000 words (about 30 printed pages), and it's just about done. I'm looking for somewhere online to post it, so stay tuned.

PS Speaking of ball-breaking, check out the vid I posted on LonelyGirl15's site...

Mending fences

August 6, 2006 (cont'd)

"I'm leaving. Try to grow up while I'm gone," Tim says, closing the door gently behind her.

In a weird way, I'm proud of her for handling this with such maturity. At the end, at least--throwing the spoon wasn't exactly an adult-like thing to do. But she got herself under control quickly.

We've had huge fights before, and have retreated to our respective corners of the house to cool off, but this is the first time one of us has left. I flew off the handle, I know, and it wasn't necessarily because of what she asked me. The question was reasonable; what I objected to was that Tim was fine with my decision until her mother told her to be less than fine with it. Her opinion seemed to change 180 degrees before my eyes; at some point, Tim has to be an independent adult.

I know I was mean, but part of it was my frazzled nerves, part of it was the offense I took to being questioned by someone close to me, and part of it was intentional, to show Tim that she crossed the line. Having said that, I don't want to lose her. If she does not call or come home, I will call her, because I want to talk this out reasonably.

10:11pm

An IM window pops up as I check box scores.

Tim: hello

Steve: hi honey

Tim: honey? so im not a bitch anymore

Steve: i never called you that

Tim: no but you called my mother that and worse

Steve: i dont want to fight with you anymore

Tim: me neither! :-(

Steve: do you see my point

Tim: do you see mine, she is my mother and i love her and respect her opinion even if you dont

Steve: i don't like the way you went about it

Steve: if the question is from your mother then let your mother ask me

Tim: but after she said it, it made sense to me so i wanted to know too

Steve: you lied to me and said it wasn't her idea

Tim: im sorry

Tim: but why does that matter

Steve: because sometimes I feel like she manipulates you and tries to come between us

Steve: and it makes it worse when you dont tell me the truth

Tim: so remember our rules? you can ask me to change something

Tim: and it cant be don't listen to your mom anymore

Steve: sigh

Steve: can it be, ask your mom to move to Bora Bora

Tim: steve!

Steve: im not stupid. what kind of an idiot would i have to be to quit without having another job lined up, unless i didn't have a choice anymore

Tim: i know

Steve: i had to quit, for my sanity and my health. i could not wait around until i had another job

Tim: i know!

Steve: but i feel like you were doubting me

Steve: do you trust me

Steve: totally and completely

Tim: YES

Tim: i know you are not an idiot, you are the smartest person i know, and you are very successful, i am so proud of you

Steve: i need you to trust me then, that question really hurt me

Tim: do you trust me??

Steve: YES

Tim: then you have to trust that i won't let my mother change my opinion of you

Steve: lovely weather we've been having :-)

Tim: lol,,, stop it

Steve: ok, ok

Steve: honey i am sorry i swore at you

Tim: and im sorry i threw a utensil at you

Steve: remind me to buy plastic spoons

Tim: LOL

Tim: seriously, i need you to believe that my mother could NEVER make me feel differently about you

Tim: i love you

Tim: lovelovelovelovelovelove

Tim: i know you don't believe this but my mother loves you--she is not trying to split us up, she is just being nosy

Tim: she does this to everyone

Tim: when she gets sick and goes to the doctor, and he tells her what is wrong she sits there and argues with him

Steve: ack

Tim: its her way of expressing love lol

Steve: if shes not trying to break us up then why did she try to break us up at Christmastime

Tim: she honestly felt i was getting too involved and was going to get hurt or was going to hurt you. now she knows we are together permanently

Steve: as long as you dont kill me with flying spoons first ;-)

Tim: dont you have something to say

Steve: i apologized

Tim: *ahem*

Tim: Tim: i love you

Tim: lovelovelovelovelovelove

Steve: baby

Tim: ?

Steve: I lovelovelovelove

Steve: lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove

Steve: lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove

Tim: lol

Tim: ok, ok

Steve: i do have one thing to ask

Steve: if a question comes from your mother can you please tell me that

Steve: ?

Tim: ya sorry i lied :$

Tim: if its a reasonable question i have a right to ask, if you don't feel its reasonable you can just say you do not want to answer that

Steve: ok, i'm just letting you know i might say that sometimes

Tim: i will try to understand

Tim: and can you please remember the rule about no personal attacks

Tim: i seem to remember some bad language ;-)

Steve: can't seem to recall any...

Steve: ok, i will work on that

Steve: ok?

Tim: k

Steve: hey where r u?

Tim: coffee shop lol

Steve: can you please please please

Steve: please please please

Steve: please please please

Tim: i get it

Tim: please what

Steve: come home now?

Tim: you sure u want me there lol

Steve: o ya, i want you

Tim: me too

Steve: dont break the speed limit

Steve: ok break it

Tim: i love you honey

Steve: i love you

I guess Chuck E. Cheese is out of the question at this point?

Sunday, August 6, 2006, 7:14am
Steve and Tim's house

It's an amazing dream.

Tim's long hair falls on my thighs like autumn leaves. She takes my cock between her lips with aching slowness, careful to shield her teeth, so that all I can feel is the soft insides of her mouth. She caresses me expertly with her tongue, and presses her fingers gently against my balls. The orgasm rises in me; my abdominal muscles tense and shudder. My God, is a dream going to make me cum?

"...like that baby?" she whispers, as she pulls my cock from its cozy warm spot and the full weight of her body lands on me.

My eyes open. This is how I wake up most days, with Tim on top of me, or, if I am lucky, with my boxers off and my dick already awake, showered, dressed, and halfway down the road to hard-onville.

Our bodies bump together and I feel her nakedness; I like that I don't have to wait for her to get undressed. Not 10 seconds later I am inside her, my hands clutching her naked ass, pulling myself more deeply inside her.

"Happy birthday, honey," she smiles when we are done, tying her bathrobe closed, and instantly I know that I will remember this for a long time: Not the sex, but her smile and the soft sincerity of her voice. God help me, this is actually beginning to resemble a healthy relationship.

I never realized how important weekends were for me, mental health-wise. When work was only "crazy", as opposed to "an endless parade of ballistic mayhem", I could kick back on Saturdays and Sundays, sleep until 9:00 without feeling guilty, and return to work on Monday ready to conquer whatever obstacles hindered my productivity. Now, I don't need an alarm clock anymore; I can't stay in bed past six, no matter what my calendar says.

"Why did you give your notice to Dan if you didn't have another job lined up?" Tim asks as I sit down at the kitchen table.

She's been talking to her mother. I heard the phone ring while I was in the shower, and it must have been her calling. That question had Diana written all over it, with its thinly disguised insinuation. It sounded like something Diana would say; I could close my eyes and see her saying it.

Tim and I have had this argument before. Her mother snaps into action any time she perceives a loss of control over Tim's life, planting poisonous seeds in her brain, as a reminder that Diana, not I, ruled Tim's every thought and deed long before I entered the picture.

I am never comfortable about having my competency questioned, least of all in my own house, by my girlfriend. She wouldn't lecture Tom Brady about football, nor Donald Trump about real estate; why doubt me, when I have achieved so much, so quickly? It's disrespectful of everything I have accomplished.

Normally I would rein in my temper, try to understand Tim's side of things, and calmly explain my point of view. But I have too much work on my mind to allow for anything but a 30-second conversation. And Tim should know better anyway.

"Do you do everything for your mother, Tim? Do you clean her toilets, and wipe the oatmeal off her chin?"

"What?" she sneers.

"Your mother called you, and put that little nugget in your head, and you came right back and threw it in my face."

"No she didn't."

"Who was on the phone just now?"

Nothing.

"Thought so. Do you trust me at all, Tim? Do you think I'm a complete idiot?"

"All I was saying--"

"You know how stressed out I've been. I can't sleep, my heart races all day long, I feel like I'm gonna drop dead any minute. I can't do this anymore, so I gave my notice. You know that!" I spit. The yelling only serves to coalesce my concerns, to encapsulate my anger into a single fiery pill that burns my innards like a Habanero pepper.

"I know!"

"So why the fuck are you asking me that question? Are you a fucking idiot, or do you just lack the guts to stand up to your asshole mother?"

"Don't you ever talk about my mother that way!"

"That's right, defend her, Tim, because you can't stand up to her."

"She just--I just, was asking you a question! If you didn't want to answer you didn't have to!"

"You shouldn't be asking. By asking you're doubting me. You're making me sound like an idiot who doesn't know enough to find a job before he quits!"

"I'm not doubting you!"

"No, your mother is, and you're just following orders."

"Stop saying that!"

"Stop doing it."

"Fuck you, Steve," she shreiks, flinging a spoon at me. She misses my head by inches, and the spoon clangs noisily against the far wall.

The noise startles us into silence for a moment. We stare at each other.

"Can we please talk about this calmly?" she asks.

"No, we can't talk about it at all. I don't need your mother's advice, and even if I did, I didn't ask for it. It's rude to interfere."

"It was just a question," she insists, lowering her voice as if to reduce the impact of her words.

"Bullshit, Tim. What if I walked up to my brother and asked him, 'Are you still a child molester?' Would he get angry? I would assume so. You can imply a lot with questions."

"I have a right to know the answer. And I have a right not to be screamed at for asking," she says, her eyes locked solidly on me. "You hate my mother so much that you can't even talk to me anymore."

"You have a right to know," I say. "You do. She doesn't, and this question came straight out of her mouth."

"Why do you hate her so much?" she asks, her voice rising.

"Because she interferes with our lives, and she doubts me, and she makes you doubt me."

"Well, I don't know if I can be with someone who thinks my mother is so horrible."

"I guess that elminates 90% of the world's population, then."

"I'm serious."

"Fine, get out then."

She looks at me.

"Oh, and thanks for treating me so nicely on my birthday."

A line in the sand

Sarbanes-Oxley has given my company dozens of new responsibilities: complicated, labor-intensive recordkeeping and ass-covering, all of which requires the creation of lengthy procedures and endless documentation. The company doesn't dare put the money that they need to into these projects, because it's money that goes down a rabbit hole; they are, after all, initiatives that won't make the company rich.

Instead of creating a national corporate compliance department and staffing it, as they should, the company split the work into quarters and dumped it on me and my three counterparts across the country. They know we are already overworked, and the additional projects make it hugely difficult to run our offices, but remember, CEO's and CFO's are making these decisions. They have revenue targets to hit, and they have Wall Street boots to lick. They would love nothing better than to stand in front of a room full of reporters and crow that their "SOX" compliance costs 25% less than comparable companies'. Sure, for the people actually doing the work, life is hell, but those are just details, and true leaders don't sweat details. True leaders are on a first-name basis with every maitre-d' in town, and work short weeks so they can drive to the Hamptons on Friday morning to beat the traffic.

My job is to run an office of 100 employees, with an annual budget in the neighborhood of $100 million. I worked 50-60 hours a week before; now, I have forgotten what it's like to come home when the sun is out, and weekends are no longer for sleeping in, but for catching up. As soon as I heard we weren't staffing up to meet the new demands, I called Dan Johnson.

"You're beginning to sound ungrateful," he said, without a trace of humor.

"You hired me to run an office. Now you're asking me to oversee government compliance."

"Compliance is part of your job."

"It's most of my job, now."

"Do you know how many people would kill to sit at your desk, Steve?"

That's right, Dan, change the subject, because you know I'm right.

I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. This was the job, and it wasn't changing.
But my strength has always been in managing people, in building strong relationships and finding effective solutions to business problems. Compliance, to me, is tedious and boring. Still, I did not have another job lined up, and the pay was good where I was.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006, 10:06am
Steve's office

I have reached the point of no return.

Emails continue to flood my inbox, employees with problems continue to flood my office, and new compliance projects continue to monopolize my time. I simply cannot do this anymore, without letting it take over my life.

I decide to make the call that I have been putting off for months, a call which will do serious damage to my career. I have stalled as long as I could, hoping that things would miraculously rebound. They have not.

"What have you learned today, Steve?" Dan says.

"That I'm no longer the right man for this job," I reply.

"Bad day, hm?"

"Bad year, Dan. If this were a six-month situation, fine. But my entire job description has changed. It's not the job I was promoted to."

"Steve, I don't have to tell you--"

"That other men would kill to have this job? Be my guest. Go and promote one of them."

He pauses. I'm sure most people don't have the balls to answer him that way, and he must be surprised.

"Steve, you are better than this. Are you just going to give up? Tell me what the problem is, and tell me what you need to solve it."

"The problem is Sarbanes-Oxley, and I need you to hire a national compliance department to get that work off my desk."

"Not going to happen," he replies sharply.

"Then you'll have to find someone else to do my job."

"You better think about this, Steve. This is career suicide for you. If you walk away now, if you just cave in and quit, it's going to affect you for the rest of your life. You'll never work in this business again, that's for sure."

He's right. A high-level executive my age who quits and does not take a similar or better position with another company will be judged unable to handle the pressures of a corporate insurance job. Word travels fast in the industry around here, too.

And you know what? I don't care. Maybe this is the level of commitment that is required to be an executive now; if so, I don't want to be an executive. I'm smart, and I work hard. I'll find another job, even if it means a cut in pay.

"Thanks for the heads-up, Dan."

"Are you giving your notice?"

"I'll give you until the end of September, if you want."

"Think it over, Steve. Get back to me on Monday."

"I've already thought it over. I wouldn't have called you if --"

"Monday, Steve."

What's up, bitches?

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

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

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

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

Stevo

Without a trace

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

I dial Bonnie's cell. Voice mail.

"Heidi, have you seen Bonnie?"

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

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

"That's what I want to know."

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

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

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

"So she got one?"

"Heidi."

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

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

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

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

"What happened to Ralphie?"

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

"He didn't wake up?"

"It happens."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One hundred eighty-six.

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

"Steve!"

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

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

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

Da-dum! goes message number 187.

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

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

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

4:34pm

I call Tim.

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

Just another tricky day for you me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is driving you crazy?"

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

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

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

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

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

"So do something about it, Steve!"

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

"She's not there!"

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

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

Bad move.

"Is that him?!" yells Peggy.

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

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

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

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

Wait a minute--I can!

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

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

"Right," he says.

"When are the taxes due?"

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

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

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

"Enough!" The room goes silent.

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

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

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

"Okay, Steve."

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

"Steve, he's constantly-"

"Three O'clock, Peg."

I wonder where the hell Bonnie is.

Da-dum.

Fighting fair

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

The phone rings. It's Dom.

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

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

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

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

"That's a nice thought."

"Does it make you mad?"

"You had sex with him, Tim."

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

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

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

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

"Then what's the problem?"

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

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

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

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

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

**********

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

A few of the fighting rules we follow:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

The phone rings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was there for work, Renee."

"I know."

**********

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

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

"I've been--"

"You've been what?"

"I've been thinking."

"About what?"

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

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

"Say it, Renee."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're a coward, Renee."

"How am I a coward?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Steve-"

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

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

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

"Is that all, Steve?"

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

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

Closing out some ass

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

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

Not so fast, I think.

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

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

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

Evidently not.

"Can I use your bathroom?" she asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4:14am

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

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

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

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

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

RIP Croc Hunter

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

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

**********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pleeeease?"

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

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

"To what?"

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

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

"I love that place!"

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

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

I wonder if she'll show up.

**********

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

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

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

"Out of your league?"

"She was digging me, bro."

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

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

Only chicks did that!

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

"Asshole?" Kiersten giggles.

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

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

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

"Appreciate that."

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

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

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

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

1:50am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kiersten chuckles.

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

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

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

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

**********

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

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

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

"What?" she smiles.

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

"Hey babe, it's me--"

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

"...and IIIIIII-ye-IIIIIIIII, think you need glasses..."

Thursday, February 26, 1993, 6:30pm
Renee's apartment

"What are your intentions with my daughter?" Murray asks, staring down at me through thick glasses. For a white-haired Jewish man, he's intimidating.

Instinctively, I glance at Renee, and she rolls her eyes.

Murray bursts out laughing and hugs me. "I'm just teasing you. I've heard a lot about you. You've been very good to my little girl, from what I've heard."

"I'm Debra, Renee's mother," a stubby, poufy-haired woman says. I shake her hand.

Murray throws his arm around my shoulders. "Steve, I'd like to buy you dinner."

"Thank you, Murray."

**********

10:05pm

The women have retired to the kitchen to make banana bread as Murray and I channel-surf.

"Are you using protection?" he asks, and the canned sitcom laughter of whatever show we are watching punctuates his question perfectly.

"Uh, ah, um..."

"I mean, I assume you're sleeping together; that's natural. It's what people do when they are dating," he shrugs. "You're having fun."

"Well, ah--"

There aren't too many things more uncomfortable than talking to some guy you just met about boning his little angel. I really wish that Renee would walk out of the kitchen and rescue me, but I'm sure she can't hear us.

Besides being uncomfortable, this is also a delicate situation: Murray does not know for sure that Renee and I are sleeping together, but if I gave him a yes or no answer, I would confirm it. And do sponges really count as protection anyway? It's basically a catcher's mitt for my jizzum; one wild pitch, and we're done for.

"Steve. Really, it's alright. I'm a big boy. I know that my daughter--"

"Mind your own business, dad," Renee calls from the kitchen; her and Debra shreik with laughter.

"Busted again," Murray laughs. "Seriously," he whispers, I just want to make sure you're being careful. You guys are just having fun, I know, so it would be a shame if--"

"I'm serious dad, cut it out!!"

At first, I was just glad the conversation was over. But the more I thought about it, the more troubled I was. What did he mean by, "you guys are just having fun"? He made it sound like we were just fucking for the hell of it, like there was no connection whatsoever. But there was.

Wasn't there?

Maybe Murray assumed that when Renee was ready to settle down, it would be with a Jew. Maybe he meant that she wasn't going to stay with me long-term.

Was I thinking about marrying Renee? No! But I wanted to take this to its logical conclusion. If the relationship failed, it failed--but I didn't want it to be over something so arbitrary.

Renee didn't strike me as the type who was dominated by her parents, and surely she was not arcane enough to restrict her life choices for the sake of perpetuating outdated dogma.

Was she?

She wasn't religious. She had never set foot in a temple for all the time I had known her. So why couldn't I shake this fear that Murray was exactly right?

There was no way I was bringing this up to Renee. What was I going to do, walk up to her and say, "Hey, were you planning on marrying me?" Sure, that would go over well. If she wasn't mentioning it to me, maybe she did think this was just a casual fling. So what kind of loser would I look like if I asked her about it?

**********

Thursday, March 18, 1993, 10:00am

"Steve, can you help me do a gig this Saturday?" my friend Dennis asks.

"A gig?"

"I know you haven't helped me in a long time, but I sprained my wrist and it's in a cast. I need you to pull records for me, help set up and break down, stuff like that."

Dennis and I were pulling down a few hundred bucks a week at one point DJ'ing at parties; we had even gotten a few wedding gigs, and were generating some buzz around town. But after I had started my internship the previous fall, I was too busy to continue, and Dennis carried on by himself.

"Sure, I guess I can do it. Same arrangement as usual?"

"Yeah, 70-30, right?"

"Fuck off," I laugh.

"Yeah, fifty-fifty Steve, just like always! It's the spring semi-formal, so the honies ought to be out in force."

**********

Saturday, March 20, 1993, 8:00pm
University "Spring Fling" semi-formal

The doors open, and a sea of liquor-craving undergrads sprint for the bar, drink tickets in hand, bumping and jostling one another for a better place in line.

Dennis and I preferred drunk partiers over sober ones; they were uninhibited, and they made it easy to get the party rolling. We exchange a knowing smile as the booze flows.

One sure-fire party song in 1993 was "She Drives Me Crazy" by the Fine Young Cannibals. Dennis spins it around 9:30 and, as always, the dance floor fills immediately. No sooner does Roland Gift begin his odd falsetto, than a tanned hottie approaches the DJ table.

Dennis' radar works better than mine; though his back is turned, and the music blares painfully loudly, he wheels around right away, as if he can smell her.

"Can you play a song for me?" she asks, and I devour her with my eyes, lingering on her slender neck and naked shoulders.

"Sure, which one?" I ask.

"Um, I don't know the name. It goes, '...don't hurt me, don't hurt me..."

She's talking about "What Is Love?" by Haddaway. But there's no way I'm telling her that; she's way too hot to let her get away quickly.

"Hmmm," I say pensively. "It rings a bell. Who sings it?"

"I don't know. You don't know it? It's like, 'what is love, baby don't hurt me...'"

"Ohh, that one! That's 'What Is Love' by Haddaway. Sure, I'll get that on for you! What's your name?"

"Kiersten."

"Okay, Kiersten, you got it."

I stare at her three-inch heels as she walks away. "Don't tell me. 'Shout!', right?" Dennis says.

"No, 'What Is Love?'"

"Oh yeah, of course," he laughs.

"This one's going out to the lovely Kiersten," I say, in my best polyester DJ voice, as Dennis spins the record. Kiersten and two other girls shreik and wave their arms as if riding a rollercoaster.

She's not with anyone tonight, or at least I don't think she is. These gigs were always overflowing with young hipsters, and I often found myself wishing I could go talk to them. For whatever reason, it never happened for me, but Dennis had hooked up a few times.

9:45. Kiersten returns to the DJ booth. She's heartbreakingly hot, all hips and boobs, with mouthwatering pink lipstick. "Can you play something slow? I want this guy to ask me to dance."

"So go ask him!" I say.

"A girl never asks. Play something slow!"

"How about Whitney Houston?"

"Perfect!"

I cue up "I Will Always Love You", and 30 guys with newly-found beer balls let their hands slip down over their dates' asses. Kiersten stands off to the side, eyes darting about the room as if looking for someone.

The song is less than half over when Kiersten approaches me again, moping.

"Why aren't you dancing?" I ask.

"He's dancing with someone else!"

"Where is he?"

She points to a pudgy, dark-skinned man dancing with a blonde, who looks halfway decent until she turns around and we notice that she's riddled with back fat.

"That's the girl he's dancing with?!"

"Mm-hmm," she nods.

I don't care how cool the guy is, he's just average-looking. Maybe below average. If he's got a girl like Kiersten sweating him, I should be able to nail her outright.

I think I'm going to try.

Is this fast enough for you, assholes?

Saturday, January 30, 1993, 1:30pm
33 Briarwood Drive, apartment 4

Most of you probably hear "take home exam" and think, "cakewalk". Obviously, you did not go to my grad school.

Dr. Glenn, my Organizational Behavior professor, is a brilliant man. But apparently, he does not believe we are truly learning anything unless we have carpal tunnel syndrome. One 15-page paper after another. Essay tests. Hour after hour of dry, scholarly lectures. And, worst of all, the dreaded take-home exams.

Taking an in-class test has benefits. The teacher knows that you have filled your brain with reams of information, and that one can only be so successful at regurgitating it. Forget a point here or there? It's to be expected. Take-home tests offer no such luxury.

Forget about copying the answers from a textbook: Dr. Glenn's tests call for numerous reference sources. It's not uncommon to need four books to answer one question, and if your response covers less than five pages, you fear you have forgotten something.

"How about if you work on #1 and I work on #2?" Renee asks, tapping her cheek with a pencil.

"So our answers will match? That'll go over well."

"We share the relevant material," she reasons, "but we write our own answers. Deal?"

"Relevant material?" I mock. "When did you turn into Dr. Fraser Crane?"

"If you make fun of me, I'm not helping you."

"I think it's time for a break," I say, rising from my chair.

"We just ate lunch, Steve!"

"I'm not hungry." I brush a handful of curls aside and kiss the side of her neck.

"Stee-eeve, we have a lot of work to do."

"It'll still be there in an hour."

"An hour? What are you planning on doing to me?"

"You'll find out."

She wheels around in her chair, eyebrow cocked. "You want to do it now?"

"I wanted to do it three days ago."

"You have bad timing," she says, but I can barely hear her. And I can tell by the restless wiggle of her butt and her breathy sigh that she's lying.

I've been to her house every night since Monday. On Thursday, we had The Talk, about birth control (she uses sponges) number of partners (she's had two), and history of diseases (both of us are clean). "Do you feel like you are ready to do that with me?" I asked, and was surprised at my directness.

"Yeah!" she said, and I went stiff. But all I got was a big kiss goodnight before I went home. And jerked off.

I came back on Friday, and nothing happened. But today seems promising.

She stands up, narrows her eyes and looks me up and down, then runs her fingertips across the back of my head. She opens her mouth to kiss me, and I know she can tell how hard I am when
our hips bump together.

"Go get in bed," she whispers, and heads for the bathroom.

I don't like being butt naked when a girl walks into the room. For me, it's better to have boxers on and leave something to her imagination.

She opens the door, and I catch a brief glimpse of her dainty triangle before she snaps the light off. I squint, and see her in shadowy profile, slipping her Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt over her head.

She flings herself on top of me as I frantically pull off my boxers. "Go slow," she coos, her breath hot against my cheek. "I'm really tight. Okay?"

"Okay," I pant.

She lifts her pelvis and rubs the tip of my cock against her, slipping it this way and that, as if to find the perfect angle. I have adjusted to the dark now, and I stare at her face as she stops moving and her eyelids slide closed. She presses against me, and her pussy spreads open as I penetrate her with agonizing slowness. She pauses with me halfway inside her and her eyes flutter open, her mouth ajar, her lips wet and shiny. Is she okay?

"Ohhh my God," she moans.

I slide my hand down her back and across her ass, pulling her harder against me, but it's unnecessary; she is riding me now, her pussy devouring and releasing my cock as I watch unblinkingly.

She is tight, amazingly tight, and I feel every millimeter of her insides as I fight to hold off the orgasm, the pleasure blaring in my head like an air raid siren.

The initial resistance melts and her thrusting grows faster, the wet sounds of our sex drowning out the faint squeak of the bed springs.

I grab her tiny, bouncing breasts in my hands, her hard nipples against my palms, and I am overwhelmed by the exquisite perfection of the moment, the intense euphoria. I shudder violently as the orgasm finally overtakes me, and I relax and let it.

She lays her cheek against my chest as my racing heart slows, and when I can finally breathe deeply again, she props herself up on her forearms and stares at me for a long time.

"I don't feel like studying any more today," she grins.

"Yeah, as long as I don't have to eat my foot again..."

Monday, January 25, 1993, 8:46pm
McKellum Hall, room 238
Organizational Behavior Seminar

She must see me staring at her.

The funny thing is, she's not what I would call traditionally hot. She's small, for one thing, barely five feet, with comic book-character eyes, a little too big for her face. And though curls can be sexy, hers aren't; her hair is coiled tightly, like the spring in my pen.

So why do I find myself swiveling around in my chair every two minutes?

She's Jewish. I don't know exactly how, but I can tell. It might be her nose; though it isn't the deformed beak you are imagining, it's definitely not the frail, girlish one you'd see on some southern chick at her debuttante ball.

It's too hot in the classroom, and the air is dry. She licks her lips, and right away I want to fuck her. Her mouth is small, her lips thick and pouty, jutting slightly from her face. Her teeth shine with flawless white, and suddenly there is no group decision making or benchmarking; there is only my racing pulse and the subtle line of sweat on my forehead.

"I'm gonna let you cut out a little early today," Jodi says. Thirty-two notebooks snap closed; backpacks zip and unzip.

She came to class late. That meant the parking lot outside the classroom would have been full, and she must have parked in the rear lot. She'd probably take the long way, out the front door and around the building; if I walk out the back door, I'll get there first, and our paths will cross.

I walk a narrow hallway and open a door marked "Fire Science Department". Immediately, I'm hit with the smell of burning plastic. Wispy blue smoke drifts from an open classroom door, and inside, two Asian men huddle over a table, talking animatedly in another language. I exit the building, and my lungs hungrily suck the fresh air, though it's only a few degrees above zero.

A single street light blares blindingly, illuminating the billowing clouds of my breath. The hairs in my nose begin to freeze, and I realize that today is not the day for idle chit-chat, as intrigued as I am by her. Besides, what if I was wrong? What if she didn't park in the back lot at all?

She rounds the corner of the building, in her puffy pink jacket and matching scarf, her curls spilling out from a white knit cap with a pom-pom on top.

I stare at my shoes. It's important not to look like I planned this; it needs to seem like an accident that we bumped into each other. My plan has worked perfectly--she's all by herself, not a classmate in sight. Now is my chance to talk to her without interference from anyone.

I look up as she steps onto the curb. "Hey, Renee!"

"Oh. Oh! Hi, Steve!" Her mouth spreads into a sweet smile. Somewhere between the classroom and here, she put on a face completely different than the one I saw a few minutes ago. She is no longer an overachieving grad student, just a girl looking to get home and curl up underneath a warm blanket. I can't blame her.

"Nice of Jodi to let us out of class early, huh? So we can get started scraping our windshields."

She laughs. "Tell me about it. I'm gonna have so much reading to do when I get my book."

"You don't have one?"

"Bookstore was out."

"Wanna borrow mine?"

"If I take yours, what will you do?"

"I'll just fail," I smile.

My stomach leaps. I'm no pro at this, but I know that giggle, that little bat of the eyes. I actually have a shot with this girl!

"Wanna meet me at the library tomorrow and copy the pages you need? I have some money on my copy card."

"Oh, I'll pay for the copies."

"Buy me a burger instead."

"Now?!"

I wasn't thinking now, but what the hell?

"Sure, you hungry?"

**********

Parthenon Diner
10:05pm

She's from Minneapolis. She graduated last spring and moved right on to grad school. "I enrolled before senioritis set in," she said.

"Good move."

I can't stop staring at her mouth, the way her lips glisten wetly as she lowers her coffee mug, and how her dainty tongue slides slowly across them. I shift uneasily in my seat, burning to jump across the table and slip my hands under her purple turtleneck.

"It's so nice talking to you, Steve. Thank you for the coffee. You made my whole day!"

She must know I want her. She must know how urgently I want to take her home and rip her clothes off while Barbara Walters cackles incessantly on a TV that neither one of us is watching. And she must feel the same way, too, or else why would she have come out with me? And why would she have made such a flirty comment?

I wasn't as confident then. I analyzed too much, tried to read into every little clue. I'm sure I looked horribly unsure of myself.

"So, do you... need a ride home?"

"Steve. I drove. Remember? I followed you here!"

"Oh yeah, that's right," I stammer, as my ears burn.

"Are we still on for that burger tomorrow?" she smiles.

He says, she says, volume VII

Hi Steve,

I'm a 22 year old male. I'm straight and pretty inexperienced sexually, only having had sex three times till now. Although these encounters were quite pleasurable for me(as I hope they were for my partner), I'm plagued by insecurities regarding penis size. How small is small? I'm exactly 5 inches erect, I want to know whether this is a serious sexual handicap?

Also I have certain questions regarding the anatomy of the penis, mine is curved and has a tendency to hang to the left, also the left testicle hangs lower that the right one, Is this bad medically? I read somewhere that the curvature is called peyronie's disease(?) but couldn't find anything about the 'underhang' (if you will). I feel uncomfortable going to a doctor about this, but will definitely do so if it turns out to be serious. I'd really appreciate any info.

Please reply,
concerned

==================

Steve says:

Concerned, ever watch Asian porn? You'd be shocked at how small the guys' units are. Obviously they work, though--there are, what, a billion people in China?

Are you so insecure that you are not even talking to girls? Three times total at age 22 seems a bit on the low side. Why only three?

Despite the spam that we all get advertising penis enlargement, assume that what you have is all you're gonna get. You can't save up 13,000 skee ball tickets and get a new cock at the amusement park. Make the most of what you have, my friend.

And for God's sake, don't draw attention to it. Go out, meet girls, talk, laugh, and connect. Act like your pecker is so long you could jump rope with it. And when you get lucky enough to get her clothes off, act like you've been doing it since nursery school. How? Watch porn. When I finally got laid for the first time, I looked a hell of a lot more experienced than I was. Change positions, try different things. Take note of what feels best for you (and her). They say guys with small dicks like it doggie style, so be sure and try that, especially if you've got as much of a bend as you say you do. Is it a handicap? Only if you make it one.

That bent penis of yours might be a blessing in disguise. You're gonna be hitting spots that most guys cannot. Get out there and try it out!

If you are dating someone, and you're not sure you are getting the job done, ask her what she wants. But instead of "Am I big enough for you?" say, "What do you want me to do for you?" Don't obsess over your bend, or your hang to the left, or having one ball lower than the other. As long as you don't have any symptoms, you probably have nothing to worry about. For the record, I think I heard that most guys' left balls hang lower. I really do think you should talk to your doctor about it, though, even though you're uncomfortable. It will give you peace of mind to hear him say that there is nothing wrong.

And by the way, learn to be amazing at oral. Do a search on my blog for some hints on this; I discuss it from time to time.

Good luck, and tell us how you do.

===================

Ari says:

Dear Concerned;

As tempted as I am to call “bullshit” on your highly suspect email (I mean, my god man, you seem to have everything but a hairy mole on your cock) I will answer you honestly in the hopes that;

-you are legit.
-this does end up being helpful for you.

My first concern is why has a healthy, straight male had sex only three times by the age of 22? No offense, but that’s a tad strange. And I can’t help but note that you said 3 TIMES, not 3 PARTNERS. What’s the story there? And you feel that all your occurrences went over well? I do not know a soul that would say their first time was great – not a one. And yes, I asked around before answering this.

Anyway…

To answer your questions, 5 inches erect is not small. I’d say you’re probably about average. 3 inches erect is small. But what about the width. Have you got any? As we girls, have been you telling you guys for AGES, it isn’t the length, it’s the width. Now, in all fairness, if you are 3’ long than all the width in the world probably won’t matter, but luckily for you this little tidbit is irrelevant. You are not small.

You are however curved, you say. Let’s address that. Curved cocks are only an impediment for oral sex, it’s hard to finagle your head and mouth in a crooked fashion. For sex though, as Paula Jones can tell you, a curved cock rocks. You are hitting spots in a woman’s vagina that a straight dick can rarely hit without some serious movement from your girl. A curved cock has better odds of nearing the g-spot and depending on the position (doggy!) you could probably really get a girl off.

As to the matter of your askew testicles, I’ll let Steve take that ;)

Good luck and enjoy the curve, we ladies sure tend to.

"I don't know, my back is really killing me..."

"Owzerdaaad..."

"What, Tim?"

Her head lolls in slow motion across the generic white pillow and her eyes open slowly, like rusty car doors.

"Owzer..daad."

"Howser's dad? Who the hell is Howser? You mean Dick Howser, the baseball guy?"

"Grrr," she says, trying to roll her eyes. "How's...yer...Dad."

"Oh! You're asking about my father! Just a second, Tim."

I dash out of the room for two minutes. "Ask him yourself," I say, returning to her bedside.

Dad pushes his walker up to the bed. "You see? When you're in the hospital I come and see you," he gushes.

"Frankieee," Tim whispers, and touches an IV'd hand to his cheek.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" Dad says.

"Stoned."

We laugh out loud.

"Hey, I hope you don't mind, but they gave your excess boobs to the flat-chested nurse down the hall," Dad cracks.

"Frank!"

"The doctor said you did really well," I say.

"You mean it's over?"

"Yeah, it's all done."

She puts her chin to her chest and looks down. "Oh my fuckin' God."

"What?"

"Tell that nurse I want my tits back."

Dad almost falls out of his chair laughing.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Tim and Steve's house

"I'm perky!" Tim says to the full-length mirror. "Hun, look! I'm perky!"

She lifts her grey stretchy bra, revealing two scarred yet perfectly sculpted B cups. They look just like a teenager's breasts, firm and bouncy.

"Touch them!"

"Don't they hurt?"

"A little. Be gentle!"

A cup them in my hands like broken glass, and go instantly hard. I have all I can do not to squeeze them.

"I like them!"

"I can tell," she giggles.

"You see? You're still sexy!"

"Thank you, sweetie. Hey, one other thing."

"Hm?"

"You're not still getting that dick reduction, are you?"

Tim's (formerly) big breasts

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Time for my annual post...

Sorry guys, busy as hell, as usual.

Thursday, January 12, 2006
Steve's house

"Yer never gonna guess who dis is!"

"Let's see. Deep voice, guinea accent. Luca Brasi?"

"Steve, it's your father!"

"I know who it is, Dad!"

It was a tough week and a half, but it looks like the worst is over. It's going to be a long road ahead, but at least he will live.

"I love you... all..." he says, before hanging up.

"I love you too, Dad."

"And tell dat girlfriend of yours she better come to my room next time!"

We laugh.

**********

Friday, January 27, 2006
Pine Ridge Rehabilitation Center, room 105

"Didja see that nurse? The Puerto Rican one?"

"Which nurse, Dad?"

"Dat one, dat one," he says, leaping in his wheelchair and pointing to the door.

A creamy-complexioned, ponytailed nurse wiggles by the room in deep blue scrubs.

"Holy shit!"

"She likes me, too!" Dad says.

"Is that right?"

"Watch dis!" he says, picking up the telephone. "Hello, is dis da front desk? Dis is Mr. Trump in room 105, I mean, suite 105. Can you send my girlfriend Jasmine over here, please?"

He hangs up, and 30 seconds later, the Puerto Rican nurse walks through the door. "Hi, Frankie, what do you need, love?"

"I told my lousy son dat you have a crush on me, and he doesn't believe me!"

"Awww," she says, puckering exaggeratedly with Jolie-like lips. She plops herself down on Dad's lap.

Holy shit!

Supposedly, Dad did really well with the ladies in school, before he met Mom. But this nurse is 25, tops. Surely she's just kidding. Isn't she?

"What do you think?" Dad says.

"I think I want her to sit on my lap next!"

Dad can walk short distances with a cane now, and is looking much better. He's lost 40 pounds!

"Frank, I want to apologize for not visiting you at the hospital," Tim says, after Jasmine leaves.

"You did visit me."

"But I didn't come to your room."

"I understand," Dad says.

"But--"

"Shh," he says. "Come here, Tim."

"I hope you don't expect me to sit on your lap," she chuckles.

"You can do dat after your boyfriend leaves," he winks.

She sits on the edge of the bed.

"Tim, I love you just like you were my own daughter," Dad says, and the room goes deathly silent. Dad never says "I love you" to anyone. When he said it to me a few weeks back, I thought he had too much morphine.

"Ohh," Tim says, hugging him. "I love you too, Frank!"

"I just wanted her to hug me," Dad smiles as she sits back on the bed, and we all laugh.