Steverino's Song Quote Contest, Volume I

From the useless trivia department, I used the phrase "I like" 34 times in yesterday's post.... just thought you'd like to know...

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The rules are pretty self-explanatory here....name the songs I am quoting, including artist and title, and e-mail your answers to me. The winner gets [drumroll please]...

A HIGHLY SOUGHT-AFTER GMAIL ACCOUNT!
*1 GB of mailbox space - all yours!
*Archive your emails and search them, Google-style!
*email attachments of up to 10MB
*all free!

We are going on the honor system here. NO CHEATING! (Yeah, right, you guys are gonna be Googling your asses off...)

HINT: Some of these songs have been discussed on my blog...



THE QUOTES:

1. "Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in the springtime"

2. "Come give me a hug if you're into gettin' rubbed"

3. "I wanted to be with you alone and talk about the weather"

4. "I may have made it rain; please forgive me \ My weakness caused you pain, and this song's my sorry"

5. "I hope you'll be alright, 'cause me and the boys will be playin' all night."

6. "You don't always have to fuck her hard; in fact sometimes that's not right to do"

7. "I'm happy, feelin' glad, I got sunshine, in a bag, I'm useless, but not for long, the future is comin' on"

8. "Breathe, breathe in the air, don't be afraid to care"

9. "Don't think that your charm and the fact that your arm is now around my neck / Will get you in my pants; I'll have to kick your ass and make you never forget"

10. "Thought you'd never miss me 'til I got a Fat City address / Non-stop talker, what a rocker!Blue-eyed murder in a side-swiped dress"

Contest is over when I post on Monday morning. Have at it, guys!!!

That was quick...

First off, congrats to my pal Scur for nailing the Tenacious D quote!

I am thinking of having a song quote contest soon - the winner will get a Gmail invite. The rest of you will have to blow me for one...

Losing mom is starting to actually feel liberating. It's nice to know she's at peace and not getting into any trouble, or making trouble for anyone else. As mean as this may sound, problems followed mom nearly everywhere she went, and I like the idea that she is just memories now. I will miss her very much, but in some strange way, it's a relief, too.

Now that the shock and pain are subsiding, I don't feel like the clingy little wuss that I was last week. I don't want to sit around watching "Titanic" and "Shakespeare in Love" with Lila. I don't want to fall asleep next to her while Jay Leno interviews Jude Law. I'm not 65 years old. I want to go out and do something dangerous.

Yeah, I'm getting the urge to fuck again. I am starting to remember why I called myself an addict.

I am wondering why I could have ever thought for one minute that I was "cured". Work was crazy. Then mom got sick. For a while, my mind was on other things. I am reminded of the movie "A Clockwork Orange," in which they take a sociopathic criminal and "train" him to be a law-abiding citizen. It works - for about 15 minutes. He is a criminal, in the depths of his soul, and that is what wins out in the end.

I don't know why I like sex so much. I don't know why I need it. But I do. Am I going to start denying myself, for any reason? Doubt it.

Mom was only 58 years old. We don't know when we are going to go. I'm even more inclined now to abandon all pretense, to go out and have as much fun as possible. Now.

"So why don't you just fuck Lila," you are saying. You just don't get it, do you?

Getting off, as in having an orgasm, is cool. It's a release that every guy needs. But that need is not why I crave sex so much. Your body pretty much takes care of that release: If you build up too much pressure down there, you'll blow a load in your sleep. And a lot of us guys whack off constantly, too. But just getting your rocks off is only half of it.

I've said it before: I think of myself as an antisocial personality more than a sex addict. I like the hunt. I like the conquest. I thrive on it.

I like the ritual of dressing up before I go out. I like the idea of choosing just the right sweater, just the right slacks, and just the right shoes with just the right belt. I like looking a very certain way when I enter a room, walking a certain way, with a certain look on my face, then acting aloof when I get a compliment about my appearance, as if I got dressed in a dark room and threw on the first things I could find.

I like searching the room for the right girl to hit on. Sometimes, guys, it's not the hottest girl, or the 2nd-hottest girl, or the third. Sometimes it's the chick in the corner with the wind pants. Is it nice to fuck the sexiest girl in the room? Yes. Have I done it before? Yes. But every other guy at the party is going after her, too. I might fuck you, and I might not. But I'm DEFINITELY not waiting in line to find out.

I like approaching her. I like thinking of what I am going to say, coming up with a funny joke or a good segue into something we can talk about. That's after I say "hi", of course, because that's all I really say when I meet someone. I'm not about these dumbass lines that guys always use (Are you from Tennessee? Cause you're the only Ten-I-see!).

I like watching her look at me, sizing me up, squinting a little, thinking, who IS this guy? And I like watching her face, how it goes back to normal after she stops laughing at a joke, and how she bites her lip subconsciously as she thinks about fucking me for the first time. She probably hasn't entertained these thoughts before. Fucking me did not occur to her, until just now. But I've been thinking about it the whole time, and everything I have said and done has been leading her there, without her even knowing it.

I like walking away at the right time, not looking back, and wondering if I "stuck". I like looking surprised when she comes back over to me later, like I have been thinking about a million other things since I spoke to her last, and she had slipped my mind.

I like watching the look on her face when I ask her to go for a walk, or leave the party. I like how she struggles with the idea, maybe because she has a boyfriend, maybe because she feels like a slut, and I like how I pretend not to notice her conflict whatsoever.

I like the electricity of kissing her the first time, the unknowing anticipation of what her lips will feel like: Wet? Dry? Sloppy? Neat? I like grabbing for her tit, wondering if she will stop me. I like finding out that she won't.

I like watching her pull her shirt off, her bra going slightly askew, a crescent-moon of breast popping out underneath. I like the thought that, when she got dressed this morning, she had no idea she'd be pulling those clothes off in front of some guy she hadn't even met yet.

I like the way our breathing speeds up as we disrobe, hot and panting, brimming with desire. I like stopping for a minute before we are totally naked to kiss each other. And as we do, I like the heat of her naked boobs against my chest.

I like looking down and seeing my cock standing straight out, like I am saluting her. I like that moment of delicious anticipation in which her legs are open to me and I am just about to penetrate her, and I like the thought that I have really done it, I have found a way to get this girl to take her clothes off and give herself to me; I have found a way to get a girl to give me everything she has in this world. Again.

I like the rush of slipping it into a girl for the first time, feeling her wetness and heat. I like how the action builds to a crescendo, faster and hotter, and I like how she moans subconsciously as we fuck, and how it feels so good we can hardly take it.

I like pulling my cock out of a girl and blowing a load all over her stomach, or her tits, or her face. I like how she flinches a little, as if she didn't expect there to be that much, and I like how she says, "Mmmmmmm" after we are done, like she has just eaten a really good dessert.

Can I stop?

Do I want to?

"Go to therapy," you are saying. Yeah, sure. Go to someone like doc, who will fill me full of drugs, then talk to me endlessly about how it felt when mom whacked me in the ass with a metal soup ladle or slapped me across the face in front of my friends.

Yeah, he'll give me some drugs, and I will blow up like a balloon and lay around all day, fat and lazy, but I won't be thinking about sex. You could "cure" me by slicing my nuts off. Does that mean the treatment was justified? Does it mean it was the right thing to do?

This is who I am. This is how I want to live my life. And this is the way I am going to live it, until I feel differently.

Yeah, I do still love Lila. And I know I'll slip up eventually; I always do.

I wonder when it's going to happen.

" 'How's it goin'? That's the first thing I say to you...."

Can anyone ID the song quote in the title?

Paulie has been a good friend to me throughout the whole Mom ordeal, and I just realized that I have not blogged about him since It happened.

We've been best friends for almost 30 years, and as a "buddy", they don't come much truer than Paulie. It was kind of awkward, how he tried to console me, though.

I could tell he really wanted to come up with something to make me feel better. A day or two after it happened, at my dad's house, he threw his arm around me and said, "hey, after this blows over, you come stay with me for a couple days, awright?" He had to know I wouldn't do that. ONE day at his house is pushing it.

At the wake, he came up to me and said, "Hey! This weekend, you and me are gonna get TOTALLY fucking hammered. Right?"

The truth is, the prospect of slamming vodka-tonics until I puke didn't appeal to me, and didn't make me feel better. But I realized that he was trying to comfort me, and that DID help quite a bit.

We didn't make specific plans for the weekend. But guys usually don't. Or, at least I don't. As far as you girls are concerned, there are all sorts of rules involved, and if we have the audacity to ask you out on Thursday for a Friday date, I'm pretty sure it constitutes legal justification to kick us in the balls with a steel-toed stiletto.

For guys it's different. We don't make advance plans. Our minds don't work that way. I might call Paulie to go somewhere about an hour before I'm ready. If I think of it. Or, I might call him from my car, already on my way there. What happens if he says no? Then I play it by ear.

Paulie actually lives quite a distance away, so he calls me early in the day. We agree to meet at Shots, a sports bar, around 7:30.

Lila has been pouty ever since I told her where I am going. I ask her two or three times what is bothering her, and she keeps saying, "nothing." She is pissed because she's had me all to herself for weeks, and now I am going out with a friend instead of her on a Friday night. It's annyoing that she won't say it.

5:00. Lila is in my doorway, idly wiggling her foot on the carpet.

"You out?" I say.

She nods. She won't look at me.

"I'll see you tomorrow, ok?" I say.

"Not tonight?"

"No."

"Fine," she says, petulantly, and turns to leave. I let her go.

I guess I am supposed to chase after her, grab her by the arm, and make some grand gesture to prove my love. Hope she isn't holding her breath.

I really needed Lila to be close to me during my hour of need, and she was. But now that I am back into my routine, I need her the way she used to be. She used to be very respectful of my space; now I find the cap off my toothpaste, and my dishes put back in the wrong place, and the crinkly paper backing from her maxipads all over my bathroom floor.

I've come a long way. I'm a little less relationship-phobic now. But this isn't a soap opera or TV show where, in 22 minutes, a guy goes from fucking the babysitter to slapping on a tux and marrying his girlfriend in a sun-drenched, flowery gazebo somewhere. I still ain't marriage material, and might never be. Especially not with a chick who's barely old enough to vote.

Shots is packed tonight. The man-smell is everywhere, that hearty mixture of barbecue sauce, french fries, and spilled beer that makes the floor sticky. Giant plasma TV's broadcast baseball and football, each with its own set of testosterone-addled drunk revelers loudly celebrating each completed pass and called third strike.

When Paulie and I are hanging out, I can really relax and be myself. Pretty much nothing is off limits. It feels good to be able to fart without craning my head all around first to see who's watching, or marvel at how big Lindsay Lohan's tits are, and how nice it would be to fuck her and blow a giant load in her freckly face, without fear of being labelled a pervert. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Sometimes our uninhibitedness gets us into trouble. Once, years ago, Paulie and I were being fitted for tuxes for a friend's wedding. The girl who was measuring us was really hot, and Paulie and I started going back and forth about her(in Italian). Don't worry, I'll translate:

Steve: "Eh, Paolo, che pensi di quel braciola?"
["Hey, Paulie, what do you think about this little piece of meat?"]

Paulie: "Be', per me va molto bene, tutt'appost!"
["Man, it looks really good to me!"]

Steve: "Pensi che le piacerebbe andare ai ginnochi?"
["Do you think she likes to suck dick?"]

Paulie: "Ehh, credo di si', credo che questa braciola desidera sempre un cazzo duro!"
["Ya, I think so, I think that this chick constantly craves cock!"]

Girl working on our tuxes: "Voi stronsi non sapete che parlo Italiano anch'io!"
["You assholes don't know that I speak Italian, do you?"]

Ahem.

Our waitress is in a chatty mood. She's very cute, maybe 5'6", with a wide, happy smile and intense blue eyes. Her name is Morgan. I really like that name. She's thin and kind of waifish, with a really firm, tight ass. I like round asses with a little bit of a jiggle, usually, but Morgan is totally in proportion and I love that.

"So what're you guys up to tonight," she says.

"We're just tryin' to stay outta trouble," Paulie says.

"THAT'S no fun," Morgan says. She's looking at me.

"Any chance you could change the channel for us," I say.

"Sure! What do you guys wanna watch?"

"Home Shopping Club!" I say.

She laughs out loud. "Doubt it!"

"Ok, TLC? HGTV? General Hospital??"

"I'm thinking not," she laughs.

"Sex and the City, then."

"You're getting closer," she says. "If it involves sex, they might not object too much."

"I wouldn't know, I'm a virgin," I say, smiling.

"Yeah. RIGHT," she says. She's smiling at me.

"I need another beer," Paulie says. Morgan walks off to get it.

"Knock it off!" Paulie says.

"What?"

"Quit fucking hitting on the waitress. What's your problem?"

"I'm NOT hitting on her! I was just talking to her. So were YOU!"

"Steve, I'm not fucking stupid. I know you. I KNOW you! I know when you're on the make."

He's right, too. I am pretty sure I could fuck this waitress. She looked like a horny little slut, truth be told. And I was hitting on her. I have fucked so many waitresses that it's not funny. I have much better luck with the girls serving the drinks than I do with the chicks who are drinking them. This would have been easy.

Was I really thinking about doing it?

"Whatever, Paul." I don't have to admit everything to him, after all.

He grabs my arm. "Steve, Lila was at your mother's funeral. She was crying. CRYING! For YOU! She was so sad that you were hurting that she was crying. Is this how you pay her back?"

"Paul."

"If you cheat on her, if you fuck this up, I am never fucking speaking to you again. You got it? I MEAN it!"

"Fine, man, fine! Take it easy!" I say.

Something tells me he is not bluffing.

Back in the saddle

I hate coming back to the office after a long absence.

Yeah, it couldn't be helped. But I really cannot exaggerate how much work I have on my desk lately. And it's pretty disheartening to think that, along with the usual emergencies that crop up each day, I've got a week's worth of reports to review, department heads to meet with, turf battles to resolve, and messes to clean up.

I never thought I would say this, but thank God for Dom. He is a gifted manager, and I already know that I can trust him not to miss little details. Not much gets past him. He's been picking up a lot of the slack since I've been out.

I have been pretty tough on Dom. Every time I get an idea for a new project, I hand it off to him, much like Ross did with me. And like me, Dom never says "no". It's always, "We'll find a way to make it happen, Steve." I like that. Ever since I leaned into him the first day, Dom has been polite and respectful to me.

Yeah, I like him.

I guess I can see why he was angry at not getting Ross's job. I still think I was the right choice, but Dom has been with the company longer, and has worked very hard. In his shoes, I would feel the same way.

Whenever I have been out of the office for more than a day or two, I like to come in on the Friday before I am due back. The later in the day the better. Things tend to be pretty quiet, and it's a great time to clean out my inbox, e-mail, and voice mail, so I am not inundated on Monday morning.

It's Friday the 24th, and I finally make it in around 5:15. I've got over 200 e-mails. I really think I need Bonnie to start opening and sorting my e-mail for me, as crazy as that sounds.

It feels good to be back at my desk. I feel....better! For days now, I have been craving my routine. There is something comforting about knowing that my company is still here, my office is still here; that I can occupy my time with a long list of phone calls to return and knotty employee problems that need to be untangled fastidiously, like a kid's shoelace. This place will help me occupy my time.

I manage to clear all the faxes and memos from my desk. I get some wood polish and give the desktop a good cleaning. Now, I'll be ready to get started quickly on Monday morning.

I look out my window at a squirrel picking up a piece of bark mulch and nibbling on it. I like watching things like that.

That squirrel needs to gather food for the winter. That's pretty much it. The squirrel doesn't care whether I answer my voice mails or not. It calms me down when I remember that the world is a place bigger than my office building.

On Monday, I have to call Dan Johnson. It is time to come clean about Lila.

The more I think about it, the more I think I will be ok. It only makes sense. It would be disastrous to fire me now. The staff is just getting used to me, and then we are going to make another change? And what would the board of directors say?

There'd be weeks of damage control. Another person would have to be hired, or promoted, to fill my job, and there'd be a domino effect as five or six people would be shifted around to new positions, each one getting terribly behind while learning the ropes.

This promotion, and all the personnel moves that surrounded it, was complicated business. I don't think the company would do it again unless it had to. And something tells me that my and Lila's situation is more prevalent than I first thought.

But none of that matters. I have to assume that Ross told Dan. And, that being the case, I had better confess to Dan before he confronts me. Screwing around with an employee is bad; keeping it a secret is worse. And even if I tell Dan now, it's true that I've been keeping this quiet for months. He's probably not going to be happy.

**********

Monday the 27th, 9:05am. It's time to get this over with. I call Dan Johnson's office.

"Hi, Claire. May I speak to Dan?"

"Steve! Hi! Sure, just a minute!"

I listen to the same 30-second loop of cheesy electronic music about 7 times in a row. It sounds like it's being plinked out on a kid's toy piano. Why do I suddenly crave instrumental, clarinet versions of Bette Midler songs?

We have the same hold music here at my office. One day, I'm going to surprise the shit out of everybody and swap out the nursing home-lobby muzak with "Pretty Hate Machine" by Nine Inch Nails.

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

"I can't learn anything before 9am," I say. "Union regulations, you know."

"Don't mention that word," Dan says. Yeah, we have problems with unions from time to time. "And it's 9:15, anyway."

So I started the conversation on the wrong foot. Great. No matter, though; it's going to get worse.

"Dan, there's something I need to tell you."

"You're sleeping with your secretary," he says.

Ahhhh, you gotta love that Ross. Just as reliable as that atomic clock that loses about one 10,000th of a second every billion years.

I don't like stuttering or stammering. I think it makes me look weak. I try never to use disfluencies, like "um," "uh," "er," "well," and so on. It really does make a difference when you avoid them. Remember that!

"Yes, Dan." I say emphatically. I also don't like saying "yeah" instead of "yes".

"And you figured that Ross told me about it, so now you're telling me before I tell you. Right?"

I pause. "Yes."

He sighs, then pauses for a long time. "Haaaaaah, I remember the first time I fucked a secretary," he says wistfully. "It was 1984. Her name was Trudy. Only Trudy I've ever met, before or since. Who the hell names their daughter that, anyway?"

"Dan, I-"

"She had big, nice tits. Nice and firm," he continues. "And she had one of those beehive hairdos. Don't you love those beehive hairdo's, Steve?"

"Did you say nineteen EIGHTY-four, or nineteen SIXTY-four," I ask.

"EIGHTY-four."

So bascially, Dan, you were fucking Kate Pierson from the B-52's.

"Dan, listen," I say. "You have to know that this wasn't something I planned..."

"Oh no, of course not," Dan says sarcastically. "None of us ever plan it. It just happens. Right?"

Uh, yes?

"I suppose," I say.

"Yeah. Well, if I had a nickel for every executive who was fucking an employee, I would.... I'd need a wheelbarrow for all the nickels."

"So you're ok with this?"

"NO! I'm NOT ok, Steve! It's a huge potential liability for this company! But I can't object to something that I don't know about."

But he DOES know about it, I think. Ahhhhhhh, wait a minute. It's the "I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing" defense!

"Gotcha."

"Just be careful, Steve. Don't be stupid. Don't let it out in the open. If it gets out, I'll have to address it. Until it does, I don't know anything about it."

"Thank you, Dan."

"For what?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Nothing," I say.

"I do have one question, though," he says.

"What's that?"

"Does she have any sisters?"

Cliffhanger #2,317: resolved. Kind of.

"You're fucking her, aren't you?"

I sneer at Ross, as if tasting something bitter. "Thanks for coming, Ross," I say, ripping my hand away from him and turning my back.

I promised myself that I wouldn't lie if someone asked me that question. But I'm at my mother's wake, for crying out loud! It felt ok to put him off. I didn't actually lie, anyway.

Still, I'm sure he's going to speak to Dan about it. And I'm going to have some major damage control to do on Monday. But you know what? I don't care. I love Lila, and I needed to be with her, and she's really helped me get through this. There are other jobs, if I lose this one. I'm never going to have another mom, or another Lila.

We have to be back here at the funeral home first thing in the morning. It's been another draining evening and everyone goes their separate ways for the night.

Lila has been staying over every night since Tuesday. I know I usually get kind of claustrophobic about overnight female guests, but I'm really happy she's been there. I don't know what I would have done if I had to sleep alone. It's been nice having someone next to me when I wake up.

10:30. Lila is pressed up tightly against me in bed. I can feel the heat of her breath against my cheek; I smell the green apple-smell of her hair.

"Thank you," I say.

"For what?" she says, playing with my hair.

"For staying with me."

"There is nowhere else in the whole world that I would rather be than right here, next to my baby," she says, in her little-girl voice.

"Thanks for giving mom the dress."

"You're welcome."

"Thanks for meeting my family."

"I LOVE your family!"

"They love you too! Thanks for helping me feel better."

"Welcome."

We kiss.

It's a deep, urgent, slow kiss, our wet lips kneading softly.

She rolls to her side, wrapping her knees lovingly around my hips, closing her eyes and letting our passion completely take over.

I am hurt, scared, and vulnerable. I NEED to be close to her, inside her, deeply inside her, so that it feels like she is a part of me, and I am a part of her. I'm starving, or dying of thirst, or freezing to death, and she is the food, water, and heat.

I haven't been thinking of sex that much these past few days. But now my desire comes rushing back, as if my blood had first thawed, then started to burn.

I hear the snap of the elastic as she pulls her panties down her legs. I suddenly remember how much I love this feeling, how much I need it.

I am on top of her now, our bodies grinding together in perfect synch. I am not inside her yet; I am waiting until just the perfect moment.

Her breathing gets faster. Her breaths are shaky and quivering, as if she were in the 2-degree cold without a jacket.

She grabs my cock in her right hand. It turns me on that her fingers don't reach all the way around, that I am so totally turned on that it couldn't possibly get any bigger.

She pulls me into her, kissing me deeply. I want her so badly that there is nothing else at that moment, no mom, no funeral tomorrow, no family, no job, nothing but my fervent desire to mingle our bodies together, and her desperate need to please me.

She pulls me deeper inside her with her legs. Her breath still shaking, her voice silent except for the little clipped moans that slip out from time to time.

I stare at her body in the half-light, rising and falling with the rhythm of our sex, her muscles taut as we strain to pull ourselves even closer together, so that neither one of us will ever have to be alone again. Her breasts bounce slightly; her curvy hips look beautiful, simply perfect, as she thrusts them at me with a fiery passion to match mine.

I stop for a moment and feel our sex building to a crescendo. I sigh as I release all of my emotion, all of my sadness, all of my love for her in one exploding climax.

I look at Lila. There are tears streaming down the sides of her face. Mine too.

The room falls silent. Suddenly I become aware that it is pouring down rain outside. I didn't even hear it until just this moment.

**********

Lila took Friday off to be with the family. I don't expect anyone from work to be at church, but if they are, they are. I'll explain it away, somehow, and if I can't, we'll figure something else out when the time comes.

At the church, it's like I am outside my body. Dad asked me to do one of the readings, and as I genuflect at the altar and walk up to the lectern, it feels like this isn't real anymore. It can't be.

I listen to my voice over the speakers; it sounds faint and far away, like someone talking in the next room.

This can't be happening. There can't be six guys, dressed in black, carrying my mother in a box. The priest can't be sprinkling mom's casket with holy water. Mom can't BE in a casket. Mom can't be dead. She CAN'T be! Mom was young! And young people don't die.

Do they?

The mass ends and the pallbearers carry the casket back down the stairs and slide it silently into the hearse. Lila and I get into my car and take our place in the line of vehicles bound for the cemetery.

We stand by mom's grave, the priest leading us in prayer. All I can do is look at the casket, shiny and pink, sitting on top of a kind of wooden scaffolding, supported by a rectangle of grey metal tubes. There is an ocean of colorful flowers on the casket. It's beautiful and tragic.

I touch the coffin one final time as I walk away. It's cold and hard.

Family members hug and wipe away tears. I turn to Lila. She is squeezing my arm with both hands. She is crying, too.

"Can you go back to dad's house with the girls," I say.

"What? Why!?"

"I need to stay here for a few minutes alone," I say.

"But why? I wanna stay with you!"

"I need to be alone."

"What are you gonna do?"

I dunno. Thought I'd piss into her grave, maybe. Or light off a few M-80's in there.

"I just need to say goodbye alone."

"No, I want to be with you, Steve."

"Lila, please!"

"Steve, I don't understand why you are pushing me away! I don't understand why you won't let me be there for you!"

"I AM letting you be there for me! I just need to be by myself for the next few minutes! Can you please go back with Nancy and Janet?"

"OK," she pouts.

"I PROMISE I won't let you outta my site when I get back, ok, baby?"

"PROMISE!?"

"Promise."

She hugs me. "I love you," she says.

"I love you."

I sit sideways on the driver's seat of my car until all the other cars are gone. I am mabye 60 yards away from mom's gravesite.

A small, Bobcat-like vehicle rolls up to the grave. It's got a short crane-type attachment coming off the top of it. Two men work busily, attaching cables to the coffin.

The Bobcat driver works levers expertly, feverishly, and the casket leaves the ground. The two men scurry around the scaffolding, then step away. And then the coffin, with my mother in it, starts to descend silently into the earth.

It's really over, I think. Mom won't make a recovery, she won't go to rehab, she won't get a liver transplant, she won't turn over a new leaf. There is no life left in her body and never will be. It's over.

One side of the coffin is much lower than the other as the man lowers it into the grave. It's the side closest to the headstone, the part where mom's head would be. I imagine her inside the casket, being jostled about, her hands coming unfolded, her hair going askew, her body lurching heavily this way or that.

I want to get out of the car and yell at the man: HEY! Watch what the hell you're doing! Be CAREFUL with her!

But mom doesn't need me to do that now. Nothing that happens to her body is important from this point onward. Mom just needs me to drive away, back to dad's house, where I can be with my family and mourn together one last time.

To Mom, from Steve

Dear Mom,

Ever since I found out you were sick, I've been thinking about the time when I was 10 and we went to the county fair together.

It was early September, and school had just started. I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing my homework, and Greg and Chris were off playing soccer with dad.

You came to me and said, "Steve, get your shoes on! We're going to the fair!" I kept thinking it was some kind of joke, that you didn't really want to go, or that it would start raining, or that you would pass out from drinking before we left.

But we did make it, and it was a beautiful day. We walked all around, riding the Music Express and that ride where it spins around at 100 miles an hour, the floor drops out, and you stick to the wall.

In those days, I pretty much ate everything that didn't have a pulse, but I had never tried fried dough, and I didn't want to. You told me that you had loved it ever since you were a little girl, and that you knew me, and you knew what I liked, and you knew I would enjoy it. Sure enough, I tried it and loved it. You convinced me to try something new, and you did it with a smile and lots of encouragement. I'll never forget that.

I remember coming home and being tired; a good, happy tired. I said, "Can we go somewhere else together soon?" and you said, "Of course, honey." But we never did.

That day is the last time I remember you being my mom and me being your son.

I could tick off a long list of reasons why you were a bad mother, and how you hurt me. But I tried screaming and swearing and being angry at you when you were alive, and it didn't help me. Now I'm going to try forgiving you.

I know you didn't ask to be forgiven. And I'm not doing it because it's the "right thing to do", or because I feel you deserve it. I'm doing it because I think that is what I need to do to feel better and move on with my life.

Do you remember the song "A Boy Named Sue"? It's the story of a man who leaves his wife and young son, and in order to toughen the boy up, the father names him Sue, figuring that people would give him a hard time about it, and he would have to learn to defend himself. And Sue grew up to be a mean, tough man.

That's kind of like how you and I were. You neglected and abused me, but I developed a thick skin. I learned how to control my emotions and not get upset over every little thing. Not much bothers me anymore, and I have a lot of grace under pressure, because I've been through so much.

Of course, that doesn't let you off the hook, mom. This wasn't a master plan on your part. Still, no matter what you did AFTER I was born, you were the one who made me, you were the one who gave me life, you were the one who carried me around for nine months and then went through the pain and agony of giving birth to me. Without you I would not be here, and I will always thank you for that.

Every beautiful song I hear, every delicious filet mignon I eat, every savory glass of wine I drink, every orange and purple sunset I watch with a sea breeze blowing in my face, would not have been possible without you. So I guess I owe a little part of every pleasure in my life to my mother. Thank you, mom.

I learned something from you. I learned how important it is to put my family first, to be the best father that I can be, if I ever have kids. I learned how badly things can go, and how many problems can result, if a parent isn't there. Again, you didn't know it, but you were helping me.

To me, "forgiveness" means forgetting. I am going to try to put all the pain and suffering that you caused me out of my mind and just be happy. I can think of a million reasons to be bitter, but why should I do that? You are gone, and you are never coming back. Why not remember you with a smile on my face? Why not remember you like a friend who led a bad life, then suddenly found her way? Where is the harm in that?

I hope to have a wife and a family someday, and wherever you are, I hope that your grandsons or granddaughters bring a smile to your face. I promise I will be the best dad I can possibly be, and I will love them, just like I love you, mom.

And every time I give them fried dough, I will think of you.

Your son,
Steve

Emily Post would not be pleased...

...A little slow on the uptake, guys?

Many of you have been asking what I'm buying Lila for Christmas. TL (who is making a run at being Steve's #1 fan, BTW) even wondered aloud if I am buying Lila a ring. (Gulp!)

Let me dispel that rumor right now: I am NOT marrying an 18-year-old. Or a 19-year-old, or a 20-year-old. At 21, I would discuss it.

All I was saying is that Lila gave mom her dress, so now I am going to buy Lila another dress for Christmas. Taking it back after the burial would be downright macabre...

**********

Thursday, September 23.

I've been to exactly one wake in my life, when I was 9 years old.

Dad was taking me to a t-ball game, and he explained to me that a friend of his had died, and we had to go to a "wake" first. I asked him what that was, and he told me it was something held after someone passed away, so that you could pay your respects to the family. That's basically all he said.

So he takes me into the funeral home, in my green t-ball shirt and cleats, and as he signs his name to the guest book, I peek through the doorway and into the room, with its rows of folding chairs. And a dead guy in a box.

I walk up to the body. His hands are folded over his abdomen, with a set of rosary beads intertwined in them. I've never seen anyone so perfectly still in my life. It's like he isn't real, like he's a mannequin or a wax dummy. His skin looks like plastic, yellow and artificial.

His body looks tight in the coffin, as if it were too small for him. My pulse races as I think about how claustrophobic it would be in there once they closed the lid. What if he's not really dead? I think. What if he wakes up after they bury him?

I don't know enough to ask dad, and he doesn't think to discuss it with me. He doesn't say anything about it, not even one word.

**********

6:00. We are standing at the open doorway to mom's viewing room. I see the folding chairs, the box at the front of the room. Everything is just as I remember it from the other funeral home when I was nine.

Greg's wife, Nancy, is holding their five-month old daughter, Mackenzie, bouncing her gently and cooing at her. For a minute I think it is completely inappropriate that a baby is here; but then again, what is the harm, really? It's not like she is going to remember.

Nancy looks up, and I nod at her. It's time.

We slowly approach the coffin. Soft weeps hang in the air.

It may sound strange to say, but mom looks beautiful. Her hair is clean and up in a bun; her makeup is perfect; and her dress, Lila's dress, is gorgeous, colorful and flatteringly cut. I had forgotten how attractive the dress was.

After seeing mom, I feel a little better. She looks like she is at peace.

There are big, colorful sprays of flowers all around the coffin. One has a ribbon on the front that says, "Grandma," and the card reads, "Love always, Mackenzie".

We kneel in front of the coffin, two by two, and pay our respects. She does look good, but she's also got that wax-dummy appearance that I remember. It's painful to see: My mother was a lot of things, but fake was not one of them.

I touch mom's hand. It feels strange, artificial, almost rubbery. The scab is gone now. She isn't my mother anymore; she's someone I don't even know. I'm just two feet in front of her, but she's never been farther away. And she's going to get farther.

We take our seats in the first row. Guests start to arrive. We keep hearing how wonderful mom looks, and how she had a hard life, and how she is in a "better place" now. Everyone is very interested in who Lila is, too. I hear "Who's THIS pretty lady?", or some variation thereof, ten times or more.

Calling hours will be over at 8:30, and I can't wait. It really is unnerving being 25 feet away from your dead mother for 2 1/2 hours straight.

A lot of people from work come to the wake: Dom, the other VP's, most of the department managers, even a lot of our regular staff. I'd say 20 or 30 people from my office were here.

Lila was smart. She made sure to stay far away from me when work people were around.

8:00. The room is filled with 30 or 40 softly-chatting people. I think we've seen the last of the office crowd. I sit down next to Lila; she curls her hand around my forearm and rubs it absently, then lets go. It's something she's done a million times; I bet she didn't even think about it. I happen to look up.

Dan Johnson and Ross are standing there.

I stand up quickly. They each hug me. "Steve, I didn't know her, but if she raised you, she must have been a great woman," Dan says.

"Thanks, Dan."

We chat for a few minutes. Lila surreptitiously gets up and slinks away, but the damage may already be done. Did Ross see the hand-rub? Is he wondering why Lila is here so late? Is he putting together a million tiny hints that he should have picked up on much earlier? What is Dan thinking?

Turns out Dan and Ross made a special trip out here just for the service, but they can't attend the funeral tomorrow. "Guys, you didn't have to do that," I say.

"Nonsense. You are a member of the family," Dan says. "And we want to let you know how much we care about you."

"Thanks."

I walk them to their car. Dan hugs me. "If you need anything at all, you call me," he says, and he climbs into the passenger side and closes the door.

Ross is waiting for me at the driver's side. I walk to him and shake his hand; he doesn't let go. He squints at me, staring deeply, as if trying to figure out what color my eyes are.

"You're fucking her, aren't you," he says, smiling.

"You sure you don't wanna try TJ Maxx first?"

"I wanna be with you," Lila says.

It's 2:00, Tuesday the 21st. We lingered in the hallway for a long time after mom passed, but I knew they wanted to take her away, so I kind of herded everyone into the waiting area. Plus, I really needed to hear Lila's voice.

"I'm leaving work now. I'm wanna be with you!"

"Don't, baby."

"Why?!"

"You KNOW what's gonna happen if you leave. It's gonna be so obvious that you're leaving to be with me."

"No it won't! I'll tell them I have a family emergency."

"NO, Lila!"

"WHY are you doing this to me? Why won't you let me be there for you?!"

"Baby, I CAN'T do this with you now," I say. "Just come after work, ok? As soon as you get off?"

"But I wanna be there now," she grumbles.

"Baby, I love you. But this is for the best, ok? I promise we'll be inseparable as soon as you get here."

"Even with your family there?"

"YES. I think it's time you met my family," I say.

"Really?"

"Yeah!"

"Honey, I am sooo sorry about your mom," she says. "Are you ok?"

"I'll live."

"I love you. I can't wait to see you."

"Me too," I say. "Baby?"

"Hm?"

"Just make sure you come over as soon as you get off work, ok?"

"I will."

I don't remember the drive to dad's house. I wasn't particularly sad, I know, just kind of numb. It's like when you whack your head on something, and you hear the noise, and for that split second before the pain hits, your mind fills with dread as you anticipate what's coming. I know it's going to hurt me at some point; just wish I knew when.

I've got zero experience dealing with death. One of my grandfathers took off long before I was born, and no one knows what happened to him. The other one died before I was born. One grandmother lives a couple thousand miles away at a nursing home, and I think I was nine the last time I saw her; the other one died when I was five. All of my aunts and uncles are still alive, and of course, my parents WERE both alive until mom passed.

Dad gives me a list of people to call with the news. "My mom died," I say, to dad's boss, and to his bowling friends, and to mom's hairdresser. It sounds strange coming out of my mouth, as if there has been some kind of mistake.

Uncles and cousins line the street with their cars, bearing hot plates and warm wishes. I joke that the family is going to get a lot bigger now, since all the relatives who were scared of mom are going to start coming around. It feels strange to laugh. It seems disrespectful.

Shirley is here; so is Jenny. "I don't understand why you didn't want to be at the hospital," I say to aunt Shirley.

"I don't like death," she says, shaking her head and waving her hand as if to ward off a bad smell. "I don't know if I can go to the wake, either."

We eat. Everyone is tired. My brothers cling silently to their wives as dad plays host, telling mom's story again each time a new 2nd cousin or great uncle arrives.

I can't wait to see Lila.

4:50. My phone rings. It's her.

"Hey."

"I'm leaving," she says. "Where are you?"

"Dad's house." I give her directions.

"Are you ok?" she asks.

"No. I'm glad you're coming," I say.

"I love you."

"Me too."

I walk out to the living room. "Guys, my girlfriend is coming over," I announce.

My brothers' heads, and their wives', whip around to face me. "YOU have a girlfriend?" Greg says. "She must be either rich, or really hot." His wife smacks his arm. "GRE-eg!" she says.

I'm letting them know now because I really hate answering all the same questions that everyone seems to have: How long have you been dating? Where is she from? How did you two meet? Could this be The One? and so on. It's uncomfortable having your relationship on display like that, as if you are the subject of some gossipy press conference.

5:40. Dad walks into the room, smiling. "Look what the cat dragged in," he says.

Lila is standing there. I rush over to meet her. We hug tightly for a long time, and suddenly I realize we are both crying. It's like I was holding in my emotions, and now that she is here, I can let them out.

I introduce Lila to my brothers and their wives. "Wow. You ARE hot," Greg says. Everyone laughs. Lila rolls her eyes. Those kind of jokes don't faze her anymore.

Gradually the guys and the girls separate. At one point, I look across the room, and my two brothers' wives are sitting on either end of the couch, with Lila in the middle. It's a warm scene, these three young women talking animatedly. We are a family, I think, and it makes me feel better.

I am proud to see Lila fitting in that way. The girls obviously like her. They are including her in their conversations, laughing together, crying together. They've been talking for a long time.

Lila gets up to use the bathroom. I walk over to get some peanuts out of the candy dish. My sister-in-law Nancy says, "Steve. Lila is SO sweet. We LOVE her!"

"You guys like her? Really?" I say.

"Oh my god!" My other sister-in-law, Janet, says. "She is so cool. If you screw this up, I WILL hunt you down and kill you!"

"You don't think she's too young for me?"

"Steve. She is smart, she's beautiful, she obviously adores you. What's the big deal?" Janet says.

She pauses. "You're in love, aren't you?" she says. "I have never seen you this way."

"Yeah. I am," I say. It feels good to admit it.

Lila comes back from the bathroom and cuddles up next to me. I just want to go to sleep, and wake up when this is over.

"I love you," she coos in my ear, and I'm covered from head to toe in warm tingles, like a 14-year-old boy who brushes against a girl's tit for the first time.

"I love you too. I'm so glad you're here."

My brothers and dad all approach me individually and tell me how much they like Lila. She is making a really great impression on everyone. Well, almost everyone.

At one point, Jenny and I are unpacking groceries in the kitchen. She's been very quiet all day.

"Is that the girl you were telling me about," she says.

"Yeah, that's her, Lila."

"She seems young. How old is she?"

"Eighteen."

"EighTEEN?"

"Yeah.."

She rolls her eyes. "Are you dating her, or babysitting her?" she laughs.

"Not funny," I say.

"I'm sorry, Steve. It's just, everything tends to hit me at once lately. It's kind of hard watching you two all huggy and kissy. I know it can't be helped."

"What else is bothering you?" I say.

She starts to tear up. "I didn't help her. I didn't save her. I didn't try hard enough."

"You did AWESOME," I say. "If it weren't for you, we wouldn't even have known about mom's illness. You DID try very hard; you did the best you could. Mom was a grown person. If she didn't WANT help, no one was gonna change that."

"But maybe I-"

"Shhhh." I say. I hug her.

"Look, I really want us to get along. I hope we can put that whole thing behind us."

"I'll try," she says.

Lila and I take off at about 10:30. I am exhausted.

It's hard to let Lila go to work the next morning. "Please let me call in sick," she says, but I tell her we'll keep in touch all day, and then see each other this afternoon.

Dad's house. More relatives. More mom stories. Funeral arrangements. Jerry Springer. Soap operas. Boredom.

6:30. The girls are back, and we are crowded around the kitchen table amid cartons of Chinese food.

"Girls, I have a problem," dad says, looking at Lila and the wives.

"Louise didn't have any dresses in her closet at all. Well, none that we could use for a burial. So we need one."

"We could go to Lord & Taylor," Nancy says.

"Or Macy's," Janet says.

"What about aunt Shirley? Doesn't she have one mom could use?" I say.

"I thought of that," dad says. "But Shirley is a size 2, mom is a size 6. Now, the funeral home has offered to help out with this, but I'd kind of rather buy one-"

"I want her to have my dress," Lila says.

The room goes silent.

"W-what dress?" I ask, but it's just a formality. I know EXACTLY which dress.

"The D & G," she says. Nancy and Janet stare, open-mouthed.

"Steve bought me a Dolce and Gabbana dress from Esther's for my birthday," she says.

"ESTHER'S?" Janet says. "You need, like, a mortgage to buy from that place!"

"And you're gonna give it to Louise?" Nancy says. "That is so sweet!"

"No, if it was a birthday present, I couldn't," dad says.

"I want to. I insist!" Lila says.

"Steve, are you ok with this?" dad says.

"Of course I'm ok with it," I say, kissing Lila's cheek. "Thanks, Lila. I know mom would really appreciate it."

"Thank you," say a few others.

"Just tell me how much I owe you," says dad.

"Nothing," I say.

Well, at least now I know what I'm getting Lila for Christmas.

Forty-three minutes after nine

Tuesday, September 21st.

I know something is going to happen.

It's one of those mornings when I am way too cautious. It starts before I even get out of bed: I better not stretch too hard, or I'll snap my Achille's tendon, I think. I find myself checking, over and over again, obsessive-compulsively, for bus stop-bound students crossing my driveway as I pull out. I stop at stop signs; actually STOP, as opposed to the slow-roll -as-I-check-for-police-cruiser thing that I normally do.

I'm in my office. I'm starting to calm down. I look in the lower right-hand corner of my monitor. 9:43 AM, it says. It's a random time on a random day. This is just a day, like a million other days. Everything is going to be fine.

My phone rings. It's my brother Chris.

My blood runs cold. Chris never calls me during the day. Mom is dead, I think.

"Yo."

"Steve. Chris."

"What's up man?"

"It's mom."

I can't believe it. She's gone. What....what do I do? Where do I go? Who do I need to talk to?

"What happened?"

"She had a massive stroke," he says.

"Is she......."

"She's alive," he says, "but just barely. You better get down here now. And call Greg too, ok?"

"OK."

10:40. Greg, Chris, dad and I are standing around mom's bed.

Mom is a sight. The right side of her face is sagging, Rocky Balboa-like. A thick, grey tube is down her throat, forcing air into her lungs. SSSSSSH-haaaaa, the machine goes, every few seconds. Her body lurches violently with each artificial breath, as if she is trying to go to sleep but the machine won't let her. A wavy line crawls across a monitor screen behind her bed. The digital numbers change, from 43, to 62, to 81, to 53.

"She's got massive brain damage," dad says. "They don't expect her to ever wake up again."

"What......what happened?" Chris says.

"Could've been anything," dad says. "Your mom smoked for many years; it could have been related to that."

"Did it have to do with her drinking," said Greg.

"Her body was under a lot of stress," dad says. "There could be a connection. I mean, it does seem pretty coincidental, doesn't it?"

He is right. I mean, what are the chances that she has end-stage liver disease, and then out of nowhere she has a major stroke?

"Boys, I think we need to tell them to turn the machines off."

"NO!" says Greg. "What if she wakes up! Maybe she'll make a....recovery or something."

"She won't, Greg," dad says.

"YOU DON'T KNOW THAT!" Greg shouts. "You're just giving up, you're just letting her DIE!"

"Come here, man," I say. I hug him. "Hey. We all love her just like you. Do you think mom would want to live this way?" I ask, holding him tightly. "LOOK at her, man."

"But....maybe she'll......" he sniffs.

"Greg, it's time to let her go."

"You just hate her. You WANT her to die," Greg says, pulling away from me and bolting from the room. Dad goes after him.

SSSSSSSH-haaaaa, goes the machine.

Even in a coma, mom manages to give me shit.

Chris puts his arm around me. "He doesn't mean that, Twinkie," he says.

"I know. That's how it works!" I say. "You're the smart one, I'm the successful one, he's the emotional one."

He laughs. "And mom drinks enough for all of us."

"And THEN some."

A nurse walks in. "Hi, guys," she says. "You doing ok?"

We nod.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "Has your dad made up his mind about what to do?"

"Not yet," I say.

She updates mom's chart and leaves.

Dad and Greg walk back in. Greg pats my back. "I'm sorry, Steve. You know I didn't mean that, right?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Greg agrees we need to shut the machines off now," dad says.

"But I wanna say goodbye first," Greg says.

"We all do," says dad. "Let's wait until the wives get here and then say goodbye individually before we......let her go."

My brothers' wives arrive about a half hour later. We all exchange hugs. I really wish Lila were here for me. But everyone at work would find us out for sure if she left now.

Everyone except Greg and his wife leaves the room. We pace nervously across the white tiles as we hear Greg sob and wail.

They emerge from the room, dabbing their eyes with tissue.

My turn.

I walk into the room and stare at mom for a long moment, listening to her breathing machine.

SSSSSSSSH-haaaa. SSSSSSSSH-haaaa. SSSSSSSSH-haaaa.

Her chest rises and falls heavily, like a sprinter's after a race. I brush a wisp of brown hair out of her eyes. She looks.....pale.

What the hell do I say?

"Mom, it's me, Steve."

SSSSSSSSH-haaaa.

"I just wanted to say goodbye. I guess this is it, mom."

Her arm slips off the bed. I place it across her stomach. There's a little scab on the back of her hand; she had a band-aid on it the other day. And that scab tells me that this is really mom, that this whole thing is real, and not some cruel, elaborate joke. Mom is really dying.

"I want you to know I'm not mad at you," I say. "You gave me life, and I will always thank you for that. I know we've had our fights, but.....but I think you know I love you, mom."

My voice is breaking. I can't hold back anymore. I start to sob. My throat is tight and achy. I guess this is what they mean by "all choked up".

"Dad and Chris still need to say goodbye, so I better run," I say. I look at her for a long moment. "Wherever you go, I hope you are happy and at peace, mom."

I kiss her forehead. And as I leave, I realize I'm never going to hear her voice or see her eyes or feel her arms around me again. For the rest of my life, I won't have a mother.

Chris, his wife, and dad say their goodbyes. When they are done, dad taps the nurse's shoulder. "We're ready now," he says.

Two nurses enter the room and pull a curtain around mom's bed. "Louise, we're gonna remove your breathin' tube now, sweethaht," one of them says in a thick Boston accent. There is a loud, wet, gurgly sound, like sucking up water with a shopvac.

We enter the room one final time, and form a lazy circle around the bed. The monitor goes from 21, to 48, to zero, to 62.

"Hail Mary, full of grace," dad begins, and we all join in:

"...the Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.

Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death. Amen."

Mom is perfectly still. We watch her for what seems like hours. It occurs to me that I am watching the final seconds of someone's life.

The monitor goes to zero, and stays there.

He's baa-aaaaaaaaack......

Sometimes my "blog world" doesn't seem real.

I put words on a computer screen, and you read them, and sometimes you send words back. But as far as I know, I've never met any of you in person, and I've never even spoken out loud about this blog to anyone, EVER. Except for Doc, of course, but he's sworn to professional secrecy...

After I announced mom's death, and I saw the outpouring of sympathy from you, it all hit me: You cared about me, as a friend, or even as a family member, and you wanted to make me feel better. And you know what? You did.

I tried to thank each one of you who commented personally, but I am sure I missed a few. If you did not hear from me, rest assured that I read your comment, and that I will never forget you for it.

I am doing ok, and I am very happy to be back into my old routine again. "Mourning", such as it is, is a long, tedious, painful, and sometimes boring experience. Thanks for making it more tolerable.

I had one post already "in the can" and ready to publish when mom passed. Here it is.

I'll see you guys tomorrow....

Steve

**********

Saturday.

I can't keep blowing up at mom that way. Something has to happen, one way or another, to resolve this. I don't think she is going to stop drinking, so I've just got to make up my mind that if she's "drunk mom", I walk away. Mom's not perfect. Our family isn't perfect, our relationship isn't perfect. But I have to try to make the best of it.

11:00am. I knock at mom's door. Aunt Shirley lets me in. "She's tired," she says.

Mom is at the kitchen table, smoking a clove cigarette. "Breakfast of champions," I say.

She looks at me like a kid about to be punished.

"Do you remember it?" I say.

"No. Shirley told me."

"Mom, I went through a lot. So did Chris, so did Greg, so did DAD. Don't put Lila through it, too."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Don't tell me, tell her."

She picks up the phone, squeezing it tightly and dialing tentatively, like a kid learning to make her first call.

"May I speak to.... Lila?"

Pause.

"Honey, I am sorry. Please believe me, I am so very sorry."

They talk for a while. Mom looks a little better.

She puts out her cigarette. "Come here, honey." She hugs me.

"I'm scared, Steve. What's gonna happen to me?"

"I don't know, mom."

I can feel her crying into my shoulder. Yes, I do know. And so does she.

"Will you go to rehab, mom? Will you do it? For us?"

"Yes, I will, honey."

No, she won't. This is probably as good as it's going to get.

**********

I have decided to hold a mandatory monthly company meeting for all employees. Unlike my last meeting, I want to have a question-and-answer session at which employees can voice their concerns.

Our first meeting is today, Wednesday the 15th.

"Apparently I caused quite a stir when I talked about a positon review," I say at the front of the room. "I expected people to be fearful about layoffs. But what I didn't expect was that not one person came to me to ask about it. NOT ONE.

"The rumors made it all the way to the CEO's desk at corporate," I say, "but not to mine. He's 300 miles away; I'm right here. SOMETHING IS WRONG."

The room is as quiet as a whorehouse on Christmas morning.

"I don't know how some of you felt about speaking to the boss before," I continue. "Actually, I take that back: I DO know how you felt. But I am going to tell you something today: I will NEVER turn you away if you have a concern. I may not know the answer, and I may not have time at one particular moment, but I am committed to keeping the communication open. Come to me. Come to Bonnie. Call me. E-mail me. I will respond."

Heads nod.

"But what I will NOT respond to is rumors. I won't respond to 'Everyone is saying....'. I will not respond to, 'Joe Smith is upset about.....'. If Joe Smith is upset, let HIM do the talking. Joe Smith doesn't need a spokesman. You don't need a spokesman until you sign a movie deal.

"Many of you want to know if your jobs are in jeopardy. I will tell you this: I have no plans to lay anyone off. But I have not conducted the review yet, and I don't know what I will find. Maybe I'll find that we're paying someone $50,000 a year to change the water in the water cooler. I won't tolerate that.

"There's a temptation in a case like this to get the boss to use the word, 'Never'. And I will NOT use that word. I can't.

"It's not my goal to lay anyone off. It's my goal to KEEP everyone. But it's also my job to run this company efficiently."

We set up a microphone at the far side of the room, at least 50 feet away from me. This was intentional: Any closer would seem confrontational.

Mike from sales: "What do you mean by, 'Run this company efficiently'? That sounds kinda scary. What are the criteria? Do your profits have to be at a certain level, and if they are not, are you going to have layoffs?"

"First off, this has NOTHING to do with profits. If we are paying $200,000 in salary for a job that could be done with half that, expect me to address it. And expect me to address it, whether there are record profits, or record losses. It's never excusable to waste the company's money. We're not helping anyone if we do that."

Marie from accounting: "Are you going to take seniority into account if you have layoffs?"

"I assume you're asking because you just got your 20-year pin, Marie," I say. There's a little laughter.

"I hesitate on this one, because it's all hypothetical. That question sounds as though I am considering layoffs, or planning on them. I'm not. If I find wasted payroll, my first impulse would be to redeploy someone, to reassign them somewhere where they are needed, not to lay them off. A layoff is a last resort, whether you're here 50 days or 50 years."

Unless, of course, you are a temp, in which case you are fucked. As soon as I can find permanent replacements for them, they are gone.

The meeting goes well. I get five or six more questions, mostly concerning the position review. I think people feel better.

Ten or eleven people visit my office after the meeting to thank me. But still, not one person asks me if their position is in jeopardy.

BREAKING NEWS

9/21/2004

Mom died today.


9/22/2004

"Somewhere Over the Rainbow"
(mom's favorite song)

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high,
There's a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue,
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true.

Someday I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far
Behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow.
Why then, oh why can't I?

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow
Why, oh why can't I?

At least she didn't say, "Freddie Krueger"

6:03am, Friday, September 10. Dan Johnson has just teed off, and he, Ross and I are walking down the first fairway.

"I spoke to Raul, our head groundskeeper," Dan says.

"And?"

"There was a hole in the pipe."

"I know," I say.

"I almost fired him for it," Dan says. "I asked him how someone could notice that, driving by in a car, and he could not when he looks at it all day."

"It was hiding in plain sight, I guess."

"I guess."

"Steve, we've got a big client coming in this afternoon. Kind of unexpected. I want you to meet them. I think it's a good idea that you start to interact with these people, let them see how competent you are. Put their minds at ease."

"As long as they don't see my tee shot," I say. I suck at golf.

He laughs. "Well, we've changed your travel arrangements a bit. You're flying out at 3:30 now."

Fair enough. I was supposed to leave at 11:30, but 3:30 works too. So long as I get home today.

My office at corporate is blissfully quiet and comfortable. No one interrupts me for about three hours straight, and I get a pile of work done.

2:15. Our client arrives, several hours late. So much for my 3:30 flight. There's usually a later one, though. Hope I make it.

The man coming to see us represents a large food-service chain. You've heard the name. They drop millions every year on premiums with us; that qualifies them for the royal treatment up here.

I shake the man's hand, make all the appropriate small talk, and laugh fakely at his jokes. I can't wait to get home.

"Holy cow!" Dan says at 2:30. "You have a 3:30 flight, don't you?"

I'm glad he said that. I think he did it on purpose, so I would not have to be rude and say it myself.

I say my goodbyes and dash to the airport. And miss my plane by 20 minutes.

There's another plane at 5:00, but it's oversold and there are 10 people on standby.

"When's the next one," I say.

"10:00 tomorrow morning," the clerk says.

Fuck. I could get a hotel room, or sleep at the airport. I've done it before. But I made a promise to Lila and I don't want to break it.

I know we didn't have any big plans. I just told her she could stay with me tonight. But I really want to show her how important she is to me. I have to get home, somehow.

It's a five-hour drive home, at least. And that's with no traffic. There's no chance I'm getting on that plane, I can tell you. That 5:00 flight is always jam-packed.

I rent a Buick Century and get on the road. I call Lila from the highway.

"I missed my flight. I'm driving home."

"You're DRIVING? Why?"

"I promised you I'd be there."

"But Steve! We didn't have plans or anything!"

"So what? I want to be with you."

"Me too."

Long pause.

"What did mom say to you?" I say.

"I put onions in the salad. She asked me why. I told her because I like them there. She looks at me and she goes, 'You're a bitch!' and she just starts going off on me! She is scary, Steve."

Dammit. All because of some stupid onions.

"And hey! Who is that guy who makes those scary movies?" she says.

"Alfred Hitchcock?"

"No."

"Stanley Kubrick?"

"No."

"Umm....George Romero? M. Night Shayamaylan?"

"Nope."

"Why are you asking?"

"She kept telling me I was like him. It was Charlie something. Charlie..... CHARLIE FARRUM!" she says.

"Who the fuck is Charlie Farrum?"

"I don't know! Doesn't he make scary movies or something?"

"Not that I know of."

"She kept saying, 'You're just like that Charlie Farrum in the movies'," Lila says. "And she called me a Barbie doll."

"Damn. I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"It was horrible. She called me a little bitch and a whore. And....she said I was just after you for your money."

"Well, that's stupid. Everyone knows it's actually for my 12-inch pecker."

"And your nice tongue," she says.

"Are you ok?" I ask.

"Yeah. What did you say when you called her?"

"I just let her know I was a little upset with her."

"Oh, God," she laughs. "I can't wait to see you. I love you."

"Love you too."

"You know why I was crying so much?" She says.

"Why?"

"I just kept thinking about you when you were a kid. How the hell did you put up with that?"

"You get used to it."

An hour later, I'm at a highway rest stop urinal, dick in hand, when out of nowhere it occurs to me who "Charlie Farrum" is, and I realize what movie mom was referring to.

Maybe it's best Lila didn't know what mom was talking about.

"Beth Lee, I hear you callin', but I can't come home right now..."

I love early-morning flights.

I love the idea that, before 10:00am, I can be 300 miles away from where I was when I woke up that morning. I get a great sense of accomplishment from it, though I didn't actually do anything myself.

I get off the plane. While walking toward the parking lot, I see a uniformed limo driver holding up a dry-erase board with my last name written on it.

How weird. Some rich dude has the same last name as me, I think.

Then it occurs to me that the limo is mine. Holy shit!

Our corporate headquarters is an amazing place: Huge, intimidating, beautiful, and impressive.

As we pull into the parking lot, I can see the crisscrossed mower patterns in the bright green grass, and the in-ground sprinklers busily spraying water.

The building is metal and glass, with angled roofs, and a giant, mirrored front wall in which you can watch yourself walk up to the door and open it.

The inside is just as awe-inspiring. High ceilings. Wide, sprawling staircases. Escalators. Yes, escalators! Bright, colorful, freshly-vacuumed carpets. And something resembling new-car smell throughout.

After several minutes of walking, I get to Claire's desk. "Steve!" she says, smiling. "Welcome! Have a nice trip?"

"Yes, yes I did."

"Mr. Johnson wants to take you around at 11. Just be careful. He's in a bad mood."

"Anything wrong?" I say.

"Besides everything?"

"Gotcha," I say.

"I'll show you to your new office," she says.

We walk around a corner and down a long, quiet hallway. She opens a door and flips a switch. And I almost pass out.

I know that each DM has an office at corporate, so that we have someplace to work when we are visiting. But I had no idea that my new digs were going to look like THIS.

The office is huge, roughly 25 by 25, the size of a large family room. It's got its own copier and fax machine. The furniture looks to be solid oak, and ornately carved, too. There's a high-back leather chair, and a massive armoire and credenza, all polished to a dull shine and devoid of even a speck of dust. There are paintings on the wall: Real paintings, not reproductions.

"Nice, huh?" Says Claire.

"Wow," I say.

10:45. I am barely settled when Claire calls me. "Mr. Johnson will see you now." I follow her to Dan's office.

"Steve, how are you? How is it....how have you....what have you learned today, my friend?" Dan says. He's preoccupied, looking around his desk as though he has just lost a contact lens.

"Your sprinkler system is broken."

"No it isn't."

"The last sprinkler head in the northeast corner looks to be at about half power. I bet you have a hole in your underground pipe."

"That's nonsense, Steve. Our maintenance crew is meticulous. Me-TIC-u-lous!"

"If you say so," I say. "But your grass is already getting brown in that area."

He stares at me. "Ok, I'll have someone check it out. But it's absurd, I assure you."

He looks around more frantically, lifting up envelopes, moving penholders. "Where IS it?" he says. He finally produces a thin packet from a wooden bin on the corner of his desk, and places it in front of me. It is stamped "DRAFT" on the front.

"Ahhhh, SHIT! This is just the draft!" He says. He picks up his phone and presses three numbers. "Claire, bring me a copy of that employment agreement, please."

Claire breezes into the office, papers in hand. She hands them to Dan, who slaps it triumphantly down in front of me.

"Steve, this is an agreement that all company executives must sign. We'll need you to execute that for us."

The document is six pages long. My eyes are drawn to the "HOLD HARMLESS" section on page 5.

"Hold harmless" is a scary term. It's basically an agreement not to sue or take any action against the other party, no matter the circumstances.

I skim the section, and find that, in certain (albeit unlikely) circumstances, I could be held PERSONALLY responsible for legal fees and damages!

"Mr. Johnson, are you aware of what this says," I say finally.

"Of course I am. All executives are required to sign."

"All NEW executives, right?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, this is a new document, isn't it? I mean, someone just prepared it recently. Otherwise, why would there be a draft copy floating around?"

"That is correct, Steve, exactly correct."

"And I'm guessing that you are grandfathering in all the existing executives," I say. In otherwords, he's not making other DM's sign this agreement.

"Well, Steve, is that really relevant-"

"As a matter of fact, I bet I am the only one in this whole company you are asking to sign this agreement, sir. I bet you aren't even asking Ross, because he was already a DM before he got promoted."

"Steve, this is just standard legalese. It's really not an issue. Let's not make it into one."

"If it's not an issue, why make me sign it?"

"A fair question."

"I'm not signing it without a lawyer."

"A LAWYER?"

"Yeah. A lawyer. My OWN lawyer. There are personal liability clauses in there!"

"No there aren't."

I point to page five. He stares at the paper.

"Well I'll be dipped in dogshit," he says. He rubs his hair. "I'm sorry, Steve, I'm sorry. I didn't know. It's been a horrible week. HORRENDOUS."

"Sorry to hear that, Mr. Johnson."

"Please call me Dan, Steve. That 'Mr. Johnson' bullshit is for those people," he says, pointing at his office door, "so they don't try to get too friendly. So they don't come in here kissing my ass, asking me to christen their kids and come to their family barbecues."

"They ASK you that?"

"Of course."

Dan takes me around to meet all the key players in the office. I meet at least 20 people. The last person we meet is Fran, the CFO (Fran is a male, BTW).

"YOU'RE the new DM? YOU?" Fran says, unsmiling.

"Yes."

He shakes his head and turns his back. "Sheeesh!" he says loudly, as he walks to his desk.

"Dickhead," Ross says, loud enough for Fran to hear.

"Gotta get back to work," Dan says. "You have dinner tonight with Ross and me, and golf tomorrow morning at 6."

**********

7:00. We're at Cafe' Parisian, an overpriced, way-too-impressed-with-itself restaurant, at which it's impossible to get a table on short notice. Unless you're a high-powered CEO, that is.

Even the menu is a work of art, with it's gentle, evocative color scheme and wedding invitation-style script font.

And the menu takes pains to describe in great detail how each dish is made. The lobster bisque, for example, is "lovingly prepared," with a long list of ingredients. "Lovingly prepared"? What, does the chef whack off in it?

With all that love you are getting, I guess $17.95 for a bowl of soup is a bargain.

"Steve," Dan says over crudites, "there are a couple of things that concern us about this transition."

I've been expecting this. The layoff rumors have surely reached corporate, and from there have made their inevitable way to Dan's desk. I have to be careful how I address this: If I say I knew nothing about them, they'll tell me I am not paying attention. If I say I knew ALL about them, they'll tell me I should have done something.

"Such as?"

"Several people have called this office, fearing that they are the victims of an impending round of layoffs. Are you aware of this?"

"Aware that they called you? No." A sneaky response. By answering this way, I don't have to tell him whether I heard the rumors or not.

"So you didn't hear the rumors at all," Ross says.

Thanks, Ross. You're just like a dad to me. Prick.

"I hear lots of layoff rumors. I heard YOU were being laid off, Ross. Every week, someone else is supposedly being laid off, or a department is being eliminated. That's not new."

"But you ARE new," Dan says. "And you should know that these rumors might carry more weight because of that."

"I worked hard to build that office, Steve," Ross says. "It would be a damn shame if we had 12 people go out and find new jobs because you didn't respond to a rumor-"

My phone buzzes. LEE CALLING, it says.

I wonder what Lila wants. She is supposed to be making dinner and bringing it to my mom's house tonight. Wonder if everything is alright.

Can't talk to her now. I let it go to voice mail.

"TWELVE people, Ross? Twelve people? You KNOW these people, Ross. We couldn't get 12 people to leave if the BUILDING was on fire."

"Did you announce some type of position-by-position review?" Ross asks.

"Yes, yes, of course." But you didn't hear that, because you were too busy ducking out on the meeting. DAD.

"Don't you think you should have told them that no positions were in jeopardy," Dan says.

"No. No, I don't. Because some positions ARE in jeopardy. The waste in our payroll staggers the mind. Over $200,000 a year in temps alone. I can barely sleep at night. I am a man of my word, and I would never say something that was not true. I value my relationships with the employees, and I won't ever jeopardize that by lying or misleading."

"TWO-HUNDRED-THOUSAND??!!" Dan says, looking at Ross.

"Dan, we had record profits last year," Ross says, dismissively.

"But TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND?"

"Those temps have highly specialized skills-"

"They're entry-level clerks from AccounTemps," I say. "Get me somebody who knows Excel, and who knows how to ask a question if they are stuck, and they can do it."

Dan leers at Ross. He's angry.

Still worried about those "12 people" quitting? FUCKER?

"And another thing," I say. "I'm trying to build a culture in my office. I don't want to be in a situation where I wait for a rumor, then respond to it. It should never COME to that point. If someone has a question, let them come to me with it. Let them ask it in the proper way, and I will answer. If I answer a rumor, then I'm rewarding inappropriate behavior, aren't I?"

"But in the meantime-" Ross begins.

"In the meantime, people are worried. SOME people. I'm still not convinced it's as widespread as it may seem. But nonetheless, I intend to get this message out there to these employees, this message that, if you have a question, my door is open. I don't intend to turn anyone away if they have a concern."

My phone goes off again. LEE CALLING. Fuck. I let it go to voice mail.

"Rewarding inappropriate behavior...." Dan muses. "Yes, yes, good...." he says, staring at the tablecloth.

"Come on, Dan, these people won't come to him about a layoff-" Ross says.

"But he's going to change the paradigm," Dan says. "They wouldn't come to YOU. Maybe they WILL come to HIM!"

BUZZZZZZ, goes my phone. LEE CALLING.

"Gentlemen, please excuse me. I have to take this," I say, holding up my phone.

I walk out the front door and answer the phone. "Hey. I'm kinda busy," I say.

Lila is crying hysterically.

"Baby? What's wrong?"

"She-she-she.." Lila begins, before bursting into fresh sobs.

"Did you go to my mother's house?"

"Yes."

"Was she drunk?"

"Uh-huh."

"Did she say something to you?"

"Steve, please don't say anything..."

My blood turns to sulfuric acid. One way or another, mom is going to learn the rule: Fuck with me, and I'll deal with it. Fuck with Lila and die.

"I'll call you back, Lila."

"Steve, don't call her-"

CLICK.

With shaking fingers, I dial mom's number.

Ring....

Ring....

Ring....

She's got to be there. Lila called me less than two minutes ago.

....ring.....

Aunt Shirley doesn't have an answering machine. "Don't believe in 'em," she says.

How the hell can you "not believe in" an answering machine? It's an appliance, not a religion!

Five rings. Six. Seven. Eight.

"Hello?" It's aunt Shirley.

"Put my mother on the phone!"

"Don't take that attitude with me, Steve-"

"PUT MY MOTHER ON THE FUCKING PHONE, RIGHT NOW!"

The phone hits the floor. Thirty seconds pass.

"Helllllll-oooooooooooo?" Mom's voice is dry and scratchy. Well, it's definitely scratchy....

"Mom, get a pen and a piece of paper."

"Why?"

"NOW."

"OK."

I recite Lila's number. "Now read it back."

She does.

"That's Lila's number. You call her right now and apologize for whatever it is that you did. And then maybe you won't have to deal with me tomorrow."

"You know, Steve, you're really barking up the wrong tree with that little whore."

"Mom-"

"She comes in here with her tight little shirt and her tight little pants, just like a little Barbie doll. A little plastic doll, with her big plastic titties and her plastic head with a little plastic brain inside." I think I can hear Shirley laughing in the background.

"That little WHORE is more of a woman than you will EVER be, mom."

"That's right, you jackass, take her side. Take sides with your little fucking bitch over your own mother. And then you'll find out that she's only after your money, and you'll be all alone."

"Yeah. I guess I just can't get away from asshole women, can I mom?"

"Steve, you-"

"You listen to me. You're gonna pick up that phone and you're gonna call her. You are gonna do something right for once in your miserable, rotten, drunken fucking life, mom."

"That's right. Take her side. That's right, Steve."

"I'm tired of you, mom. I'm tired of you getting a few in you, and acting like a total obnoxious ass, and then apologizing the next day and expecting everything to be alright. It's time for you to grow up and take responsibility for your actions. You call her."

"I'll do no such thing. I'm the mother. You're not the mother. You don't tell me what to do."

"MAKE THE FUCKING CALL, MOM!"

"Or else what?"

"Or else, as far as I'm concerned, you're already dead."

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.