"Now it's time for a breakdown..."

Did anyone get the obscure early 90's song quote in the title?

**********

Friday, December 31.

I'm not really in the mood for celebrating tonight.

Steph and I haven't spoken since last night, and I am wondering what is going to happen to us. I don't think our fight was a "dealbreaker"; I think all serious couples have to have one big fight before they are really a true couple. If neither of you gives a shit, what do you have to fight about?

I am surprised she didn't call back after she stormed out. I figured she would cool off for an hour or so, then come back, or at least phone me. But it's been almost a full day. Maybe she is dumping me, but I'll be damned if I am going to call her to find out.

I guess I was kind of an asshole, making demands on her that I knew she could not live up to. Asking her not to talk to Meg about us? That was just silly. After all, as Paige (that hot little vixen) points out, I blog about Steph's naked body on a regular basis, so who am I to bitch? But then again, none of you know who I am....

Of course, none of this lets Steph off the hook. I think she totally overreacted. She just lost it! Although, she did offer to speak to Meg about not blabbing to Heidi.

I know girlfriends like to talk to each other. I think Steph is really happy with me, and she just wants to share that with someone. I guess I don't care if Meg knows about what's going on, and I might not even care if Heidi knows, but I sure don't like the idea of Heidi dishing to me about my own love life while I'm trying to work.

I think Steph and I can work this out. In the meantime, I'm not even sure I want to go to my neighbor Kevin's new year's eve party.

9:00.

I've been working for hours. Still no call from Steph. I don't want to ring in 2005 sitting at my computer, so I decide to walk over to Kevin's and check out the party.

The party is really hopping. Twenty or so people are milling about, laughing loudly, munching on chips and baby carrots, and of course, drinking.

"Stevo!" Kevin says, slapping my back. "You in, bud?" He gestures to the dining room table, at which a group of men are staring intently at two-card hands.

"Yeah, what the hell?" I say. I pour myself a Jack Daniels and Coke and ante up. Kevin slides over four piles of chips.

About eight hands later, I win a huge pot. I don't know exactly how much I have, but I am way ahead.

My phone rings. I grab it. It's Paulie.

He's drunk. "Steverinooooooooooooo!" he screams. I hold the phone 12 inches from my face and can still hear him.

"Lemme take this, guys," I say, and walk down the hall to the family room. I'm drunker than I thought; I almost fall getting out of my chair. My ears ring; my head spins. I put a hand against the wall to steady myself, then float into the family room, next to an eight-foot Christmas tree and a roaring fire.

Cherise is sitting there, on the couch.

Cherise is my neighbor Joe's neice from Tennessee. She's visiting for the holidays. I've met her a couple of times, and I don't know her too well, but I do remember that she has an ass to die for.

Paulie and I chat for a few minutes before the connection gives out. I snap my phone closed and wait for him to call back.

"Hi, Cherise!"

"Heyyy, Steve! Ah didn't know you were here!" she says, in a delectable southern drawl. She stands up and kisses my cheek.

She stands about 5'4", and has beautiful cafe-au-lait skin. Her body is just as hot as I remember: Big, perky breasts, a tiny waist, and a sweet-looking bubble in the rear.

I don't usually find myself attracted to black girls. It's not that I am prejudiced; I'm just not normally infatuated. Vanessa Williams, Halle Berry - I find them gorgeous, of course. And guys, if you don't want to stick it to this hottie all night long, it's time to check the testosterone levels.

I've slept with black girls before, two or three of them. But they weren't the door-knocker earring-wearing, street-slang talking soul sistahs you might be imagining. These were chicks who lived on cul-de-sacs and hung out with girls named Carrie and Dakota. They acted whiter than the white girls. One in particular always used to say, "Omigawd! Are you TOTALLY serious?!" Meanwhile, all the white girls were trying to act like Missy Elliot and Lil' Kim.

But I digress.

She's wearing a low-cut sweater with cream-colored stretch pants. I know I shouldn't stare at her cleavage, but I'm doing it anyway. I'm enough of a pervert when I'm sober; booze just lowers my inhibitions to the point where I don't give a shit if she sees me staring or not.

"So what are you plans for the new year," I say, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Just goin' back to Tennessee, ah guess. Ah think ah'm gonna go back to school."

"Oh, really? Great! For what?"

"Nursing, maybe. Ah haven't made up mah mind yet. So how bout'choo? You gonna do anything crazy?"

"What, you mean like get something pierced? Doubt it."

"DO it!" she says. "Get an earring. You would look HOT with a diamond stud. Just like this one," she says, flipping her earlobe.

"I already HAVE a pierced ear," I say, pinching my left lobe. "I just don't wear one now."

"Lemme see," she says, examing the left side of my face. "Oh YEAH! It looks like it's still open! Here, put this on!"

She pulls the diamond earring out of her left ear and hands it to me. I put it in easily.

"Whoooo!" she says. "You're just a party animal now, aren'tcha?"

"I guess. So do you have anything besides ears pierced?"

"Mmmm-hmmmm," she says, with a tight-lipped grin. She grabs her right breast; it's full and round, like a boccie ball (non-guineas, look it up on Google).

My dick twitches. I look down at her marvelous melons, and feel my face go stone serious. I can see her in my mind's eye, naked, on all fours, her tits hanging from her chest like ripe oranges.

My stomach bottoms out. My breath catches. "Can I see?" I ask, smiling.

"Uh-uh."

I never forget anything when I am drunk, but I do feel oddly detached. I'm watching myself, and listening to myself, like a sportscaster doing color commentary: "Yeah, looks like Stevo's gonna be going for the hard close tonight!"

This would be easy. She'll be gone in a month, and may never be back. We don't know any of the same people. I would use protection. Tomorrow, I'd go my way, and she'd go hers, and no one would be the wiser. It's a fucking freebie! Where is the problem? Where are the consequences?

I'm twelve-year-old Steve, again. I'm greedy, selfish Steve, who doesn't know anyone's needs but his own. I'm overeating Steve, who stuffs his face long after he's full, because it tastes good, and because he's not thinking any further than five minutes into the future. As drunk as I am, I know these things.

I know I shouldn't pursue Cherise. I know it's wrong. I know that things are going well with Stephanie, better than they ever have with anyone. I know that, if I am ever going to grow up, relationship-wise, I will have to avoid temptations JUST LIKE THIS ONE. I know that this is a test, and that I can pass the test, and that I must. And still, I see her alluring smile, I hear her melodic voice, and I feel her irresistible pull...

"Do you want to go for a walk?" I say.

Trouble in Paradise

December 30, 2004. 8:45am.

Heidi is wearing her new telephone headset. Now, I can't tell if she is talking to me, or the person on the phone.

"THANK you!" she says, smiling. "I hope you have a great new year, too! I'll be sure and give Dom that message for you." And then, without missing a beat: "So, I heard YOU had an interesting night recently!"

What a weird thing to ask a caller about, I think. I wonder who she is talking to. I hope she's not pissing off one of our agents or clients.

"Steve?" she says.

"Hm?"

"I heard you had an interesting night."

"Oh! You were talking to me?"

"Yes! Of course I was! So you two are REALLY hot and heavy, aren't you?" She says, with a cute little shrug and wide eyes.

"We get along great. I like Steph very much," I say, diplomatically.

"That hot tub thing? Wow! I can't even get my dates to take me to dessert!"

"How do you know about the hot tub thing?" I say, in a Clint Eastwood voice.

"Oh, Meg told me," she says, conversationally. "Good morning, this is Heidi speaking, how may I help you?"

I call Stephanie. Voice mail. "Steph. Call me. Bye." Click.

I know good friends share things with each other, but this is really starting to piss me off. Steph tells Meg. Everything. And then Meg tells Heidi. Everything. And then, just to make sure she hasn't missed anything, Heidi approaches me, at work, and verifies every minute detail.

She needn't worry. These girls never miss anything. On one occasion, Steph and I went to the drycleaners to pick up some clothes, and the cleaners had ruined one of my Jerry Garcia ties. While trying to remove a stain, they actually made a small hole in the fabric. The next morning, Heidi approached me and said, "My God! I can't believe they did that to your tie! And it wouldn't have been so bad, but the hole is right in the front," she said, forming a little square with her fingers and holding it in front of her chest. "It's RIGHT where everybody can see it!"

Yeah, everybody can see it. Including people who haven't seen it yet!

No detail is too small. No morsel of information is too insignificant to mention.

Remember the "telephone" game at school, in which a message is passed verbally from one student to the next, and by the time the message reaches the end of the room, it bears no resemblance to the original, because people embellish and forget things? Steph and her friends are immune to that. We're talking digital-quality data integrity here, folks. Not one byte of information is lost. We should use the three of them to backup our servers.

11:30.

You might think that, now that classes are over, Steph has a lot of free time on her hands, and that is true to an extent. But she has been so busy for so long that she has put a million things off that she now must get to by mid-January, when classes start again.

My phone rings. It's Steph. "Hey."

"I can't really talk," she says.

"I need to talk to you later."

"Is everything ok?" she says. "You sound upset."

"No, it's not ok," I say.

"Do you need to talk now?"

"No. You're coming over later, right?"

"Yeah."

6:45. Steph walks through the door and hangs up her jacket. "Hi," I say, weakly.

She sits next to me on the couch. I put my laptop down on the coffee table.

"What's wrong?" she says.

"Heidi is CONSTANTLY talking to me about us. She knows every detail."

"So tell her you don't want to talk about that stuff at work."

"No, Steph, YOU shouldn't be talking to Meg about it. Then Meg won't talk to Heidi, and Heidi won't know."

"Steve, Meg is my best friend. We talk."

"I don't WANT you talking about all that stuff."

"It's my business too, Steve, and she's my friend."

"It's affecting ME!" I say, loudly.

"I'm sorry you're so embarrassed," she says, sarcastically.

"I'm NOT embarrassed! Don't be sarcastic!"

"Oh, yeah, 'cause you're never sarcastic, Steve!"

Wow, good one! And nice delivery, too.

"I just don't want people knowing our business, that's all."

"I'll tell Meg to stop talking to Heidi about it."

"And it'll go in one ear and out the other, and nothing will happen," I say.

She stares at me, open-mouthed. "THANK you......for trusting me, Steve." She is getting angry. She gets up off the couch and paces to the front of the room, near the door to the garage.

"Meg is a loudmouth. She's not gonna keep quiet."

"She's a LOUDMOUTH? She's my friend, Steve. Is that what you think about my friend?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not crazy about your friends, either."

"Oh, REALLY?"

"Yeah! I have no idea why you hang around Dom so much. He treats Meg like total shit, and you just follow him around like a little puppy dog. He's, like, your HERO."

"My HERO? I FOLLOW him AROUND?"

"You KNOW he's a total scumbag, Steve. Why do you hang around him so much? Don't you disapprove of what he does? You know he's out there screwing every bimbo in the world."

No, not EVERY bimbo. Only the blonde ones!

"I don't give a SHIT what he does. We go out, drink a couple of beers, and go our separate ways. He's not my best friend."

"Well, it's just strange to me. I don't see what the fascination is. I don't see why you're around him so much."

"Say it, Steph. You don't trust me. SAY IT! Why else would you give a shit about who I'm hanging around with? You're worried I'm out there screwing around just like him! Aren't you?"

She stares at me, her jaw clenched, her eyebrows furrowed. Yeah, she's WAY pissed off, now.

"You know what, Steve? Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you!"

She snatches her jacket off the coat rack. "Find another date for new year's," she says. "I'm going to my mother's house. You can go fuck one of your teenage whores, for all I care."

Uh, thanks. But could I get that in writing?

She storms out the door and speeds off.

The results...

Thanks to everyone who voted!

This was a landslide, by the way...

1. "Contributing to the delinquency of a (hot) minor"

2. "McSteverino's: 37 Hotties Served!"

3. (tie) "To mom, from Steve"

3. (tie) "Acing our exams"

5. "A peek into Steve's skeleton closet"

6. "Over the hills and fart away"

7. "That was quick..."

8. "Hi, my name is Steve, and I am a Twinkie addict"

9. "When your best friends are dead people, it's time to worry"

10. "Forty-three minutes after nine"

Cheesiness has its advantages

When the wrapping paper had all been wadded up into balls and stuffed into garbage bags, and the cardboard boxes had been flattened and thrown into dad's garage, and the final "Merry Christmas's" and "Happy new year's" had been exchanged, and Steph and I finally returned home, the real fun started.

We walk through the door. I wonder where I put the newsp-" I begin.

She interrupts me with a long, passionate, slow liplock. We separate with a smack. "I just want you to know, that is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me," she says.

"The photo album?"

"Mm-hmm. I can't believe my mother gave you those pictures!"

"She didn't. I scanned them."

"With WHAT?"

"Her scanner!"

"But that doesn't work!" she says.

"I fixed it."

"You FIXED it? How?"

"I reinstalled it. It was easy."

"So you drove ALL the way up there, and you fixed her scanner, and then you made that whole photo album for me?"

"All in a day's work, sweetie."

"You are SO sweet, and SO thoughtful," she says, beaming at me.

"Even though the cheesiness level was off the charts?"

"It was NOT cheesy! It was sweet and thoughtful!"

"I really appreciate what you did, too. I'm gonna hang that picture in my family room."

She kisses me again. It's an I mean business kiss. We fall down on the bed, and before you know it, clothes are flying off.

"I thought your friend was coming," I say.

"It's ok. It's not that bad right now."

She puts her hand behind my neck and pulls my face tightly against hers. She kisses me again. I turn to my right and switch the lamp off.

She is laying naked on her right side. I lay on my left side, facing her. I watch her as she strains to see my face in the dark.

She touches my face, the bottom of my chin, my cheekbones, my nose. It's almost as if she is an artist studying her subject before beginning a sculpture.

"Steve, I want you to make love to me," she says. There's a gravitas to her voice that wasn't there before. I can sense that we have reached some kind of signpost, some kind of critical point in our relationship. It doesn't matter that we haven't said "I love you" yet: It's gotten very serious these last few weeks.

I have never had sex with a girl on her period. Not on the first day of her period, anyway. One girl I dated years ago used to like to do it towards the end of hers, when it was almost over, and sometimes the condom would look a little....gross afterwards. But this is totally different. It's uncharted territory for me, and I am putting my faith in Steph that she knows what she is doing. I am trusting her that my bedroom won't look like Sharon Tate's house when we are done.

As I penetrate Steph, I notice a difference right away. I note, with euphoria and horror, that she is more...slippery and warm than usual, like when you use too much lube. I like it, but something tells me I won't like it when I turn the lights on.

I'm laying down on top of her, lifting myself up on my hands and feet, so that our genitals are the only things touching. I look down and see my cock, silouetted in black shadow, gliding noiselessly in and out of her.

"Make love to me, baby," she says.

I get harder, and harder still, as our fucking becomes more urgent. My cock feels like solid marble, like it couldn't possibly be more erect than it is right this second.

Yeah, I really like this. I like the idea that this is something I've never done before, that she is letting me do something taboo to her, something that people Just Don't Do. And not only is she letting me; she asked for it. She wanted it.

"Ohh," she moans. "That feels so good, baby."

I feel myself slipping into the throes of orgasm. It's a point at which I normally relax my pelvic muscles and stave off the climax. But I'm not planning on a long session tonight, based on her....situation.

"God," I say, and I let the climax come. I push myself more deeply inside her and feel the sweet release of orgasm wash over me.

I kiss her neck. Our faces are close together, close enough for me to feel her breath, to see the whites of her eyes in the faint light streaming in from my window. We lay like that for a long time. She is staring at me, again, as if she is memorizing every detail.

I roll over and reach for the light switch.

"Don't," she says. She gets up and rushes to the bathroom off my bedroom, and comes out a few minutes later wearing sweats. Light from the bathroom spills into my room, but I stare at the ceiling. I don't dare look down. "We probably should-" she begins.

I walk to the bathroom and flip the light back on. She is balling up the bedsheets. I don't look too long, but as I glance over, I see enough blood for a horror movie.

The Shout is on the top shelf of the laundry room, honey. Apply liberally.

**********

Monday, December 27.

"There's a package for you," Bonnie says.

She hands it to me. It's about the size of a box of cigars.

I open it. It's a heavy wooden pen and pencil holder, much more upscale than the one I had. It's engraved with my name and title, and the year.

There's a note attached:

Sorry I broke your other one.

Merry Christmas,
Landon

I'm actually beginning to like that guy.

Stevo's year-end poll

When I started this blog, I had no idea what it would end up meaning to me - or you. And now, about 175,000 words later, I can't imagine life without it.

I guess I will never know exactly how much this blog has helped me - I've been living a life outside of it, too - but I do know that I've learned a lot about myself by doing it. It's been fun.

I do not know what the coming year will bring for me, but whatever it is, I hope to share it with you.

As I look back on the past year, certain posts stand out. I am always curious about which ones people like best (I've asked many of you personally), so it only makes sense to do a little poll.

Please review the following nominees and vote using the poll in the right sidebar.

"Contributing to the delinquency of a (hot) minor" (7/15/2004) Closed-door conference calls are fun!

"A peek into Steve's skeleton closet" (7/23/2004) Steverino, former fatty, helps out a kid being bullied by a current fatty and his current-fatty father. And, he awakens an old memory in the process.

"Over the hills and fart away" (7/27/2004) Bodily functions never cease to amuse.

"McSteverino's™: 36 37 Hotties Served!" (8/3/2004) If I blow a load, and the room is totally dark, does it still make a mess?

"When your best friends are dead people, it's time to start worrying" (8/18/2004) Steve goes to the cemetery and bonds with a few pals.

"Hi, my name is Steve, and I am a Twinkie® addict" (8/24/2004) Damn. High-carb snacks make me horny!

"Forty-three minutes after nine" (9/28/2004) Steve's mom dies. There will be no sequel, unless it's written by Stephen King.

"To mom, from Steve" (10/2/2004) What would a year-end poll be without a tear-jerker?

"That was quick..." (10/8/2004) I like this post. I like it a lot. I like how I repeat the same phrases over and over again, dozens of times.

"Acing our exams" (12/14/2004) My favorite sex scene of them all.

Did I ever mention that I hate whining?

I WAS going to post my year-end poll today, but, because of popular ball-breaking demand, I decided to fill you in on the denoument of the Christmas story today. Keep an eye out for my poll, and please vote when it's up!

And next time, suck it UP, people!

**********

"May I speak to, Marti?"

"This is."

"Marti, my name is Steve. I'm dating your daughter Stephanie."

"Yeeeees, Steve!" she says. "How nice to talk to you! I feel like I know you!"

"Thank you! It's nice to talk to you, too! Happy holidays."

"Same to you!"

"Let me tell you why I am calling. I had this idea for a Christmas present for Stephanie."

"All right..."

"My father gave me a shoebox full of pictures of me. Baby pictures, young kid pictures, and so on. And I was wondering if you had a lot of pictures of Stephanie from when she was growing up."

"Stephanie is the older one, so yes, we took a lot of pictures of her, especially when she was little. Not so much as she got older."

"Here's my idea: I want to make a scrapbook where I put our pictures next to each other in chronological order. Her baby pictures next to mine, and so on."

"Oh, that's a lovely idea, Steve! The only thing is, a lot of these pictures are in albums or frames already, so I couldn't give them to you."

"Hmm. Do you have a computer with a scanner? And a color printer?"

"Why, yes, but the scanner never worked right. I couldn't get it installed."

"If I come up there and install your scanner for you, and buy you some photo printing paper, would you be willing to spend a few hours with me and go through the pictures?"

"Yes! Wonderful!"

**********

Thursday, December 16.

I am extremely busy at work. But I've announced that I am not going to be in today, and I'm sticking with that. It's incredibly tempting to simply try to divert this to another day, but I need to get this taken care of as soon as I can. There is never going to be a convenient day to spend six hours driving.

I make the trip up in two and a half hours, speeding the whole way.

Marti is very gracious. When I get there, she's already got her photo albums off the shelf and lined up neatly on the dining room table, along with framed pictures.

The scanner installed easily. I just deinstalled it, rebooted, and let XP handle it from there. It took maybe ten minutes, max. Marti was grateful. "I was all ready to bring that stupid thing back!" she says. I am amazed how paralyzed some people get when their computers don't work, and how appreciative they are when I fix them.

I start out the album with baby pictures: Stephanie under a blanket, Steve asleep in his crib. I put Steph's picture in the upper left corner, mine in the lower right, and in the middle I write a caption: "The beginnings...."

I don't think about our age difference that much, but these baby pictures really drive it home for me. Mine is from 1970. The color is washed out, and there's a white border around the photo. Steph's is from 1981, and you can really see the difference. The images are sharp, the colors crisp. I feel like I'm robbing the cradle all of a sudden.

One of Marti's favorite pictures is of Stephanie talking on a play telephone. "She used to play with that phone all the time," Marti says. "She'd be walking around the house, blah, blah, blah, all day long." I scan it and print off a nice copy.

Then I dig through my pictures, and sure enough, I uncover a picture of little Steve, sitting in grandma's lap, dialing a play phone. "A-HA!" I say. Is this great or not!?

"Ohhhh, WONDERFUL!" Marti shrieks. "This is gonna be sooo cute!"

I mount the pictures in the album. In between, I write, "A play date? I'll have my people call your people!"

It's a lot harder finding pictures of us as we got older, as you might imagine. But I still manage to find some good ones. One set that sticks out in my mind is 14-year-old Steph, skinny and gawky, with a mouthful of braces, and 12-year-old Steve, fat and jolly, with a mouthful of....something (Doritos, probably). We both look kinda goofy, but we're smiling effusively. We're happy, despite our appearances.

As I come to the end of the album, I am really happy with it. It feels like I'm...telling a story. I like the idea that our lives are intertwined somehow, that we went through a lot of the same things, and that maybe I was not really as alone as I thought I was.

There's a picture of Stephanie from last year at a formal dinner, with a tight black dress and pearls. Her hair is up in a bun with one single strand hanging down in front of her right eye. I have never seen Steph that dressed up, and she is absolutely gorgeous. I scan it and print it, then stare at the picture for a long time.

"Pretty, isn't she?" Marti says.

"Beautiful."

I find a picture of me from my brother's wedding, in a black tux, microphone in hand, making a toast. I'm gesturing with my finger, and smiling my little Frank Sinatra half-smile. I like the way I look in this one.

"Look at this match!" I say. "We're both in formal wear!"

"OOOOO, you did it again, Steve! How cute! What a HANDSOME couple!"

"FORMALLY known as Steve and Steph," I write in between the pictures.

On the second-to-last page of the album, I place a picture of me jogging. It's shaky and out of focus, but you can tell it's me. And in the middle of the last page, I put the only picture I have of Steph and me, from this past Thanksgiving. We're squeezed into a recliner, her looking beseechingly at me, me looking straight-faced at the camera. It might as well be an ad for Barcardi or Marlboro.

Underneath it, I write, "Stephanie....I am glad I "ran into" you! Merry Christmas! Love, Steve"

Corny, I know. But she liked it.

A mildly unwell Christmas (conclusion)

Christmas Day, 2004

There's something great about sleeping in on Christmas morning. I like the idea that there is a pile of presents waiting for me downstairs, and I am blissfully snoozing away. I can wake up, relax, and maybe even eat a little something, all the while giddy with the anticipation of what I'm about to get my hands on.

That anticipation is almost as good as the presents themselves. The anticipation got me through the endless Christmas masses at church and the centuries that came between December 1st and 24th when I was a kid. And it's the anticipation that I feel today, as soon as I open my eyes and see that it's morning.

Steph and I never made it off the couch. I wake up on my stomach, with her on top of me. Yes, I mean right on TOP of me, mounted on me like a backpack.

She's awake too. She rolls off me. "Merry Christmas!" We kiss. She curls up next to me. "Thank you for staying with me. I'm so glad I got to wake up next to you today," she says.

"You mean on top of me."

"Yeah! How did I wind up on your back?" she asks.

"Maybe you're part monkey," I say.

It's 8:30. We get up and make coffee, and Marti comes down. "Did you kids sleep down here?"

"Yeah, we never made it upstairs," I say.

"Awww. Well, I had the bed all made up for you up there!"

"I know."

The phone rings. Marti leaves the room to pick it up.

Marti comes back into the living room with the phone. "Talk to your uncle," she says, handing it to Steph.

"Merry Christmas!" Steph says. "Yes. Yeah, he's right here. He's leaving in a little while to see his dad. No, I'm staying with mom."

She pauses. "REALLY?! Ok, hold on." She turns to Marti. "Mom, Uncle Jerry wants to know if you want to spend the day over there so I can go home with Steve."

"I guess so."

**********

2:00. Dad's house.

Everyone is here, and there is a pile of presents for Steph and I. We decided not to open our gifts for each other once we found out we were coming here. The anticipation, again.

"Ladies first," I say, handing her a box.

"Oooo, heavy!" she says. She unwraps it. It's the car stereo, her warmup gift.

"OH my God!" she says, holding up the box. "Now my stereo is officially worth more than my car!" We laugh.

"Your turn," Steph says. She hands me a small box.

I open it. It's a pair of $200 Ray-Ban's. I had tried them on at the mall with her one day.

"Steph!" I look at her.

"I snuck back in there after you tried them on that day," she says.

"These were expensive," I say.

"You looked SO sexy in those things, it just wasn't an option." she kisses me.

"Awwwww," everyone says.

"Thanks, Steph."

We open the gifts from my family. One of them is a basket from the Body Shop for Steph from Chris and Janet. "Do I see scented massage oil?" Steph says.

"Yes," says Janet. "I picked that out!"

"You're welcome, STEVE!" Chris says, to big laughs.

"Yeah, why do I get the feeling this gift is not for me," Steph says.

"Here you go," Steph says, handing me a huge, flat rectangular package. I open it.

It's an oil painting. I recognize it instantly. I know the jagged rocks, the foamy, splashing waves, the wispy clouds. It's the beach at Newport.

I look at Steph. "Where did you get this?"

"I painted it," she says. I knew she liked to paint, but I just figured she was so busy with school that she didn't do it anymore.

"So you went down there?"

"Meg and I drove down and took pictures."

"But that's a two-hour drive."

"Three," she says. "We hit traffic. And it was kinda hard to find that beach, too. You never told me exactly where it was; you just said it's where the people go to fly the kites. So I stopped at a few places and asked around. And then, as soon as I saw it, I KNEW it."

"Yeah, that's it, all right," I say.

"Your description was perfect," Steph says.

"Steph, I really appreciate you going to all this trouble," I say. "God only knows how many hours this took you, and I know you're busy." I feel myself getting all teary-eyed.

"You're quite welcome, hon."

"Open yours," I say, handing her her last box.

She's been eyeing this box all day long. I can tell she has no clue what's inside.

She tears the paper and opens the box. The room goes silent.

She stares at what's inside for a long time, turning it over, examining it from every angle, absorbing its every detail.

"Oh, Steve!" she says.

A Mildly Unwell Christmas

I'm terribly behind in my blogging, and since I would like to tell you about my Christmas sometime before June, I've decided to skip ahead and do so. Don't worry; I'll go back and tell you everything you missed later this week.

**********

Friday, December 17

"Come to my house for Christmas," Steph says, blinking up at me coquettishly. Her irises are big and warm, flawlessly hazel. She wears no eyeliner and no mascara, but when I look at her eyes up close, I still get butterfiles sometimes.

It's awfully hard to say no when she asks me for anything this way. "My dad's been asking me to go down there," I say.

"I knowww," she says. It's a little-girl voice, kind of like Lila used to use. Steph almost never does that kind of thing, so I'm a little caught off guard. Seems she's catching me off guard a lot lately.

"It's the first Christmas without mom, so I really want to be with the family."

"Yeah, that's true," she says. "I really wanted to wake up next to you on Christmas morning, though."

That gives me an idea.

I NEVER get laid on Christmas. The last time was with Angie, and that was well over 10 years ago.

If you have a girlfriend, and you go anywhere near her on Christmas day, the biggest holiday of the year, meeting her family, or having her meet yours, you are sending a signal that Things Are Progressing. If you want to send that signal, fine. But if you don't, watch out. That is why I am very careful not to see girlfriends on Christmas day. The result is that it's been a very long time since I've had any yuletide booty whatsoever. But this year could be an exception.

Steph has been a great girlfriend since the beginning. I could not have asked for any more from her. She's given me lots of space, and lots of time for us to get closer. She hasn't pressured me or issued ultimatums about the relationship. She's never asked me how we stand or what I am thinking about us. Somehow, she KNOWS what I am thinking at all times; it's almost frightening. But it's also comforting, because I don't have to discuss it with her.

She hardly ever asks me for anything. When we go out, she's always offering to pay, even though she is totally broke. I've offered her money for bills or expenses, and she's rebuffed me each time as if I were trying to get her to drink a cup of piss. She never accepts rides or favors of any kind, unless I do something without asking, and then she accepts under protest. It's actually pretty amazing that she is asking me to spend the holiday with her; her style is to make her wishes known, and then to let me make the offer.

Knowing all this as I do, it's awfully hard to turn her down. But it's going to be a hard Christmas this year without mom, and I would really like to be with the family. If not for me, then for my dad and brothers. I definitely have to be there, at some point....

"How about if I come home with you on Christmas eve, and then leave in the morning?"

"So you're asking me to compromise," she says.

"Yes. It's a good 200 miles up there, so I would have to leave by 11 to get home in time for dinner."

"Christmas eve better be a GOOD night," she says, smiling.

"Just don't you worry about that," I say.

"Thanks for doing this," she says, hugging me. "It's just me and mom this year."

Steph's brother Robbie is visiting his girlfriend out of state, and her dad died a few years ago in a boating accident.

"You're gonna love mom. She's really cool."

**********

Christmas eve, 7:00pm.

Steph and I drive north for the better part of three hours. It's a very scenic ride, and not only was there no traffic; there were times when ours were the only two cars in sight.

Steph's mom, Marti, opens the door before we even reach the steps. "Hiiiiiiii! Merry Christmas!" she chirps, squeezing Steph tightly.

She turns to me. "And YOU must be the handsome stranger!"

"I'm Steve, how do you do?" I say, extending my right hand.

"Get that hand outta here," she says, hugging me.

It's a good acting job on both our parts. I've already met Marti, and, in fact, spent the better part of a day with her a little over a week ago. It was something I had to do in connection with Steph's Christmas present, because after much soul-searching, I finally figured out what to get her. But that's another story.

Marti is an attractive woman in her late 40's. She's thin and very short, maybe five feet, if that. The first thing I notice is that she resembles Steph, bodywise; her legs and butt look a lot like Stephanie's, taut and shapely. She's got red hair, and though her teeth are terribly crooked, it somehow doesn't make her any less pretty.

The house is small, much smaller than mine. Everywhere you look, there are Christmas decorations: Garland. Stockings. Mini-Santa Claus's. Nativity scenes. Wreaths. Pine-scented candles burning. And Christmas trees, lots and lots of them, big and small, real and fake, even a ceramic one, are in most every room.

We sit by the fireplace and chat the night away. I am sitting on the couch, and Steph is below me on the floor, holding my right hand in hers. The smell of the candles wafts over to me and mixes nicely with the smoky scent from the fire as we exchange Christmas stories, and I realize that we are making a really nice Christmas memory, just the three of us.

Marti turns in around 10:30, and I run out to the car, and come back with gift-wrapped box.

"What's this? I thought we were opening presents tomorrow!"

"We are. But that one needs to be opened tonight."

"Uh-oh," she says. "By the way, you BETTER not have spent a fortune on me for Christmas."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, right, Steve. I know you. You probably went nuts."

"Well, only slightly nuts."

"You might be a little mad at me, because I kind of bought you something big. Just promise you won't get angry?"

"Oh, no. Steph, you have no money! How much did you spend?"

"PROMISE?"

"Will you let me give you some money if you're a little short?"

"NO!"

"Will you tell me if you're having trouble?"

"I'll tell you, but I am NOT taking money from you."

"Ok."

She opens the box. It says "Victoria's Secret" on the top.

She shifts her eyes to me without moving her head, smirking. "How did I KNOW you were gonna do this, you horny toad?"

"How do you know it's something sexy? It could be power tools, for all you know. "

"From YOU? It's something sexy."

She opens the box. It's a lace merrywidow, which, for those of you who don't study the catalogs like I do, is a red and black camisole top with matching v-string panties, garters, and black stockings. Oh, and there's a Santa hat there, too, of course.

"So I suppose you want me to try this on."

"Just to see if it fits right. Then you can take it off immediately."

She disappears into the bathroom, then comes back wearing the outfit. It fits her perfectly, with just the right amount of cleavage and midsection showing.

"My mother BETTER not come back downstairs," she says.

I know the girls in the catalog always seem to wear high heels with these outfits, but there is something irresistible about seeing Steph padding around in her bare feet while wearing sexy clothes.

"God, Steph, you are so beautiful," I say.

"So does this mean that if I buy you something sexy, you have to wear it?"

"Such as?"

"Such as a thong, such as a Speedo..."

"Speedo's are only worn by gay men, and men weighing over 300 pounds," I say.

She laughs. "Tough luck."

"OK, If you get me something, I'll wear it."

"Thank you, baby." She sits across my lap, and all at once her face gets dark and intense. She kisses me, holding my face tightly in her hands.

The fire pops. We both jump, then collapse together on the couch, laughing.

She is laying right on top of me, staring at me nose to nose. "You're gonna make me fall in love with you, you know that?" she says.

"You're not doing so bad yourself," I say. My stomach does cartwheels as I realize that she actually feels so strongly about me. I knew it, sure, but hearing it makes a big difference.

I'm not repulsed, or scared, or angry that she said it, either. I'm...flattered. I'm happy. I'm monogamous - willingly!

Maybe it's time to change the title of this blog.

My hand is underneath the elastic of her panties, running over her skin, marveling at the firm curvy landscape of her backside.

"What are you doing," she asks.

"I'm feeling your nice ass."

"Oh yeah?" she says huskily.

"And getting majorly turned on, too."

"So pull my undies off me, then." So I do, and I take my own off, too.

We flop back down on the sofa. She throws a blanket over us. "The stairs are squeaky, but just in case mom comes down and we don't hear her..."

Her pussy is hot against my skin. She rubs it against me, and I am throbbing so hard that it almost hurts.

"What are you gonna do to me, lover?"

"I'm gonna fuck your little pussy until you scream."

"Oh really," she says.

"Yeah, definitely."

I start to reach for my pants on the floor, and then stop.

"Are we ok today?"

"Yeah. My friend is coming tomorrow," she says, "So you're getting a Christmas present a little early."

She lowers herself onto me, her fists against my chest, her eyes rolling back into her head.

I put my hands on her ass. I like how her cheeks are just the right size for my hands, as if they were made especially for me. She is pumping away at me just fine, thank you, but it turns me on knowing that I am pulling her towards me, making sure I am as deeply inside of her as I can possibly be.

She stops and sits upright for a moment, removing the top part of the merrywidow, which, truth be told, takes some doing, and tosses it aside.

She's totally naked now, looking seductively down at me through half-closed eyelids. The blanket slides off, and somehow it feels even hotter than before.

I grab her breasts in my hands. Again, a perfect fit. I squeeze, and she moans softly in ascent. The fire is roaring now, big, bright and glowing with a hot orange.

It's been a while since we've been together, and she is tight. I can feel her stretching to accomodate me. "I love your fucking cock," she whispers. "You are NICE and hard."

I look down and watch her curvy hips as she slides them back and forth over me. "Are you trying to make me come," she says.

Before I can answer, she has got two handfuls of my skin, digging her nails into me, and is in the throes of a huge orgasm.

I look up at her, her mouth curled into a grimace, her eyes squeezed shut. And yeah, her Santa hat is still on.

I watch my cock as it disappears into her, slick and gooey, and I know I am going to come like crazy. I go to pull out, but why should I?

There is something alluring about blowing a load inside of a girl. I guess it's the intimacy of knowing that you're actually leaving a part of yourself inside her body. The release is amazing, a big, wet, shuddering orgasm that takes over my whole body.

"Merry Christmas," she says, when she finally catches her breath.

To be concluded...

I wonder if she comes with sprinkles...

The more I think about Stephanie wanting to fuck my brother Chris, the more I am ok with it. Chris looks a lot like me, except taller and darker. If she's attracted to me, of course she is going to be attracted to him.

I am sure she was talking about Chris, too. I remember the two of them sitting on the couch on Thanksgiving, chatting away. When Chris starts talking with his hands, it means he's really into the conversation, and I could see his gestures all the way from across the room. Oh, and I saw him checking out her black-skirted booty when she got up to come to the dinner table.

So she likes him, and he likes her. Am I jealous? Am I worried that she's slipping off to his house, nailing him in between study sessions? Am I sorry I brought up the topic of who she wants to have sex with?

No, no, and no.

I trust her, just like she trusts me. Maybe I am a complete idiot, but I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that Steph would not do that to me. What's more, I have even less doubt that Chris would cheat on his wife. Chris is one of the most straitlaiced people I know. He won't even cheat at solitaire.

I am happy that Steph and I had that talk. We took on a pretty thorny topic - having sex with other people - and we were totally open and honest with each other. It's liberating knowing that I can tell her anything and that she can do the same with me.

Wait a minute. Is your perverted pal Stevo actually involved in something vaguely resembling a healthy relationship?

**********

Friday, December 17.

I love Angelo's Restaurant. Or, I should say, "restaurants", because they just opened another one down the street from my house. The first one is right near my office, and I eat there whenever I can. The pizza is enough to give you a stiffy.

You can tell how good a restaurant is by checking out the weight of the clientele. If the career fatso's with the tractor-trailer asses are squeezing their walrus bellies into the booths, eat there. These people are going to die young, but they know where the good food is. There are always gravitationally-challenged people at Angelo's.

It's about 7:00, and Steph and I decide to hit the new Angelo's by my house. Mario, who I know from the original location, greets me warmly and shows us to a nice table. He pulls out Steph's chair, and looks her slowly up and down as she sits. His face goes all dark and dreamy, like he wants to fuck her right there on the table.

He looks back up at me. I smile slyly and give him a little nod. He smiles back. We just had a whole conversation without saying a word:

Steve: Hot, isn't she?

Mario: Yeah, I wouldn't mind doing her!

Steve: But you never will, you greasy guinea bastard!

"Marissa will be with you in just a minute," Mario says.

Marissa comes over, and right away I want to fuck her brains out.

She's 5'2", and definitely Italian: Olive skin, black hair and deep brown eyes. Her hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, and she's wearing black jeans and a matching shirt.

We order wine, and she turns around to leave. Her ass is dreamy; round and juicy and smooth under her tight pants. Above the waistline of her jeans and below her shirt, I can see a small patch of skin on her lower back.

I think about that patch, that sliver of flesh, all night. How that one little sliver that is out in the open, for everyone to see, is so close to something so heavenly. That sliver makes me think about seeing her naked, about pounding the hell out of her from behind, while her bubble ass jiggles as our bodies slap together.

There's a right way and a wrong way to check out a waitress's ass when you're on a date, guys. It's pretty much at or close to eye level, so you just have to shift your gaze to wherever she is as she's walking away.

The key is distraction. Lift your water glass to your mouth and slurp ice. Loudly swish your drink with your straw. Cough. Get her to focus her attention elsewhere.

Personally, I just get this disinterested look on my face, then glance over at the chick's rump roast, then look away. It's also good to focus on two or three other people besides the chick, so it looks like you aren't fixated on the girl that you are actually fixated on.

Steph is digging through her purse for something as Marissa walks off, so I take a nice, long gander at her gluteus. I've got the disinterested look and everything. You see? There's never a need to get caught looking at girl's asses.

"Were you looking at her ass?"

OOPS.

"I may have scanned it briefly as I took in the overall ambience of the establishment," I say, helpfully.

She laughs. "You would've made an awesome lawyer, Steve." I've heard that before, too.

I could fuck Marissa. I know I could. It wouldn't even be hard. It would be simple.

She's just a kid, maybe 19 or 20. I find it easy to flatter girls that age. And they tend to like aggressiveness, too.

I could do this right now, while I am on a date. I've done it before.

I could get up and walk to the back of the restaurant, towards the men's room, and then, when I was safely out of sight, I would turn back towards the server station and walk at just the right pace so that I arrive there at the same time she does.

She'd have her head down, entering an order into the computer or putting away menus. I would touch her elbow or her tricep - somewhere on her arm, for sure - and she'd look up at me, a little startled.

Hey! How's it goin', I'd say, as if she were my next-door neighbor, or a friend from junior high.

Hi, she would say back, with a sidelong look, gazing at me suspiciously.

And I'd ask her if she's been working here for quite a while, or if it's always this busy on a [insert day here].

Hopefully, she'd give me an in, something that would remind me of a story, or a joke, something that would stick with her. Maybe she'd mention her other job, or how her car broke down and she's been bumming rides all week, or her crazy day at school.

I'd better get back, I'd say, motioning to the table. I'd love to take you out sometime.

A lot of times they say no. This one wouldn't. She'd blush, or stammer, or ask what about your girlfriend? And I'd clarify that she isn't my girlfriend, shaking my head dismissively, even though she is.

She'd write her number on the corner of a napkin or a grill slip. This one is a "Marissa", but she could just as easily be a "Shannon" or a "Tyler" or a "Dakota". She'd probably draw a little smiley face next to her name. I'd look at it and muse that oh yeah, I didn't even get your name before, did I? And she'd remember that. But it was all part of the plan. I love not asking girls their names. What can I say? I'm a Last Tango fan.

The whole transaction would take three minutes. Surgical and precise. I'd take a leak, and head back to the table, and my date would never know. It would be easy; totally, completely, effortless. Just like taking a dictionary from George Bush.

Then I remember what I said about The Habit.

When I was in high school, sometimes I'd get home and find a fresh, unopened half-gallon of Cookies n' Cream in the freezer. I'd grab an ogre-sized spoon, sit down, and eat it all. The entire fucking thing in one sitting. Now, I resist the temptation, and I have been for so long that I hardly notice the craving anymore.

Today, Marissa is the ice cream. And you know what? I'm going to resist her, too. Her, and her cheerleader-style ponytail, and her sliver of back-flesh, and her straight, immaculate teeth, and her rideable ass.

"You ok?" Steph says. "You look very...pensive."

Oh, it's ok. Just thinking about boinking the waitress.

"I was trying to think of something to drink to," I say.

She holds up her glass. "Merry Christmas," she says, smiling.

"Merry Christmas."



....and a merry Christmas to all of you, too.

Asking and telling

If you think I am (was) bad with the ladies, you should hear about Dom.

I have never met a more conscience-less, cold, disconnected person in my life, at least when it comes to relationships. He'll screw the hell out of some young hottie one night, tell her he loves her, then fuck someone else the next night, drilling the hell out of her as the first one calls him on his cell phone. He might get a good laugh out of it, but that's about it. He never feels guilty.

Dom says he's lost count, but he's been with at least 80 or 90 women. Back when I didn't know him very well, he claimed to have nailed THREE girls during one convention, which was three days. He's been truthful with me all along, as far as I know, so I think he's telling the truth. I have to admit, that is impressive.

I've seen Dom in action with girls. He has a way of looking at them, narrowing his eyes as they speak to him, as if they are saying something that is so interesting that he can hardly comprehend it. He'll say "really?" just when he should, or come up with a good joke at just the right time. As I've said, Dom hardly ever raises his voice, but he's somehow aggressive at the same time. He's not like me, asking a girl to go for a walk; he'll ask her to come home with him! And I've actually seen it work.

I don't know why Dom behaves this way. Maybe he's got some bizarre backstory like I do. I've never asked him about it. From time to time, he'll muse, "DAMN I love to fuck." Maybe he doesn't have issues; maybe he's just a horny bastard.

Dom and I have been hanging out a lot lately. All that competitiveness he had early on is gone. He's turned into a trusted associate. Yes, he works for me, but I don't like introducing anyone as "my employee"; it makes me sound imperious. I usually just say, "This is my associate, Dom." I think Dom appreciates it.

Every once in a while, Dom will open up about his brother or grandmother. He's very interested in my family, and always asks how my dad is doing without mom around. He asks about my neice, my brothers. He remembers things. I find myself saying, "Gee, isn't he a thoughtful guy?" It's flattering that he is interested in my life. And then it hits me: so this is how he does it. THAT is how he makes the girls feel like they are the only ones in the room. Yeah, I guess I do that too, to an extent.

Wednesday, December 15

I'm uneasy about tonight, because I think Dom might hook up with some one-nighter, and then I'll have information that Dom is cheating on Steph's best friend, and I'll be torn about whether or not to tell Steph. As far as I am concerned, it's don't ask, don't tell, but she probably will ask. Stephanie is no dummy, and she doesn't like Dom. She'll ask eventually.

Still, I really could use a little break, so I decide to go with Dom anyway.

We head over to a place called the East Side Brew House, a little gin mill that recently changed ownership. The place is tiny, and it's packed. The bartender scurries back and forth with a towel over his shoulder, mixing drinks and making change. The only hint of Christmas decor is a five-foot string of silver garland taped sloppily to the mirror over the bar.

The bartender knows Dom, and brings him a whiskey sour without asking. I order a Diet Coke, and Dom curls his lip at me. "Give him a Sam Adams Light," Dom says.

He turns to me. "It's a little place. We shouldn't sit at the bar if we're not drinking alcohol."

"That's you, Dom, the Emily Post of lotharios," I say.

An old neighbor of mine comes up to order a drink. We shake hands and exchange "Merry Christmas's", and he goes right into the story of his wife's cheating, and his, and their subsequent divorce.

It's a decent story. A half-hour passes. I turn around, and Dom is talking to a beautiful blonde. It's always blondes with Dom, always, always. That's when you know a guy is a successful womanizer: When he not only gets laid, but he does it with one specific kind of girl. Some guys are out there just taking whatever the hell they can get.

Any minute now, I figure Dom is going to come over and ask me to run interference for him by hitting on blondie's ugly friend. NO way I'm doing that tonight. It's bad enough I'm getting stuck in the middle between Meg and Stephanie. But he doesn't ask. It looks like she's alone, strangely enough.

My friend leaves, and I sip beer and watch ESPN on the 32-inch TV that's bolted to the ceiling. I'm getting bored. I wish I had my car. Why did I let Dom drive, again?

I feel a hand on my shoulder. "Steve, this is Andrea, Andrea, Steve, my boss."

"Hiyeeee!" she says. Jesus Christ. A total airhead.

We talk for a while. She is totally stupid, empty and vacuous, with not one single redeeming quality. Except a nice body. Every so often, her strapless silver dress slides down and I see a juicy chunk of boob before she pulls it back up. It's the only entertainment this girl's going to be tonight.

It's midnight. Andrea goes to the bathroom. I lean in to Dom. "You want me to take a cab, man?"

"What? No! No, Steve! Of course not! You come home with me!"

"OK. Do you have that CD I needed for my computer?"

"Yeah."

Andrea asked me all about work on the way to Dom's house. She was talking to me more than him, for God's sake. She is so annoying that I can hardly stand it: Her voice is high and whiny, and she talks too loud. I hope Dom has soundproof walls.

Dom's house. "Here's that CD," Dom says. I grab it. I can't wait to get the hell out of here.

Andrea chuckles and grabs Dom in a tight hug, kissing him passionately, their bodies superglued together. Dom leads her to the bedroom and closes the door.

It would've been nice if I didn't see anything, but I did.

If Steph asks me, I'm telling her.

Thank you, Mr. Gates, may I have another?

Thanks to HijackThis and the many computer whizzes (without attitude problems) out there working apparently for free, I got my PC 90% of the way back. So now you guys get to sit back and enjoy today's entry!

**********

At the party, Steph did a great job of making sure the house didn't get too messy, because she knew how that would stress me out. Someone would step on a Dorito, and she'd be there in 30 seconds, picking up the little orange pieces from the carpet.

Stephanie GETS IT. That's why I don't object to her sleeping over so much. She knows to give me a wide berth in the morning, and not to distract me in any way while I ponder how I'm going to handle the 347 nasty, combative phone calls I'll get that day. Of course, walking by me barefoot with her "Monkey Business" panties and t-shirt is distracting, but in a good way...

1:00. Dom has sobered up enough to drive. We walk him and Meg to the door and say our goodbyes. He hugs me.

Heidi grabs her coat and heads for the door, too. I've been thinking about this moment ever since she kissed me. I've wondered what our goodbye would be like, what Steph would say. And I've replayed a thousand times the feeling of her tits pressed against me, hard, as she shoved her tongue in my mouth.

Yeah, I definitely wouldn't mind fucking Heidi.

"Steve, thanks so much for having the party," she says, kissing my cheek. She gives me a tight-lipped grin, the impersonal kind of smile you give to an old lady as you hold a door open for her. It's the same smile she's given me a thousand times before at work. Whatever electricity was flowing between me and Heidi earlier tonight is totally gone, at least for now.

She kisses Stephanie and leaves. Steph immediately turns to me and practically collapses into my arms. She's tired. "I had fun," she says.

"Me, too. Thanks for helping out so much."

"Anytime."

1:30. We're lying in bed, me staring up at the ceiling, her curled up next to me with her head against my neck.

"I didn't like that game," she said.

"Spin the bottle?"

"Yeah. Heidi pissed me off. YOU pissed me off!"

"How did I piss you off?"

"You enjoyed it way too much. You put your hand on her ass!"

"No I didn't!"

"Yes you did! I saw you! It was only for a second, but you did it. Ass grabber!" she says, punching my arm playfully.

"And you weren't exactly kicking and screaming when Dom pulled you closer, either."

"At least I didn't put my tongue in his mouth."

"Heidi did that to me!"

"I know. I hate Heidi. She's such a bitch."

"You don't like her?"

"No! I hate that whole airhead act she puts on too."

"I don't think that's an act."

"Meg has known her since college. She only ever does that in front of guys. If a guy is not around, she's Miss Professional. Then a guy shows up and it's 'Oh my gaaaad, oh my gaaad, can you belieeeeeeve it?!'," she says, mockingly.

She sounds exactly like Heidi. I almost fall out of bed laughing.

And now that she says it, I think she may be on to something. I've never seen Heidi do the airhead thing without a man around.

"I'm serious," she says. "I swear she's trying to steal you away from me."

"Come ON, Steph. Do you really think that she thinks that whole motormouth thing is ATTRACTIVE to guys? And wasn't she doing it on the phone with you this morning? There was no guy on the phone!"

"She knew you were here. She wanted to talk to you. Did you see what she had on?"

"It was a little tight."

"A LITTLE tight? She exploits her boobs!"

"I don't like her boobs. I like yours."

"Yeah, RIGHT. You guys were drooling over her boobs all night. PERverts!"

"Nah, I like yours," I say, kissing her neck.

"Can I ask you something," she says, ignoring my kisses.

"Hm?" Still kissing.

"Would you ever have sex with Heidi?"

"Nope." Immediate answer. It's like a hot stove reflex, guys. God help you if you hesitate on that one.

"No, I mean, if you didn't know me."

I stop kissing her. "If I didn't know YOU, I wouldn't know HER." Clever, eh?

"You know what I mean, Steve. What if I didn't exist? What if you met her at a bar somewhere? Would you sleep with her?"

"Who could sleep with THAT voice? It's enough to wake somebody out of a coma! She ought to work at the hospital!"

"Seriously. Tell me."

"Steph, come on."

"I mean it. I want to know. You promised me!" she says. "You said you'd be honest always."

"She's cute. She has a nice body." Notice, I'm not answering the question.

"Answer the question," she says.

Sometimes I hate dating a future lawyer.

"Would you sleep with Dom?"

"Steve!"

"OK! OK! Yes. I would probably have sex with her. IF you didn't exist. And if I could muzzle her somehow."

There's no probably about it, guys. I would fuck her for days. But I had to make myself look as apathetic about it as I could.

"OK," she says. "Dom? He's cute. I don't think I'd have sex with him. He seems kind of sneaky and creepy. From what Meg says."

"Who WOULD you have sex with?"

"You."

"Besides me."

"Ricky Martin."

"Somebody we know. Who would you have sex with that we know?"

Silence.

There must be someone, otherwise she would have just said, "no one".

"Remember, be honest," I say.

"And you don't exist?" she asks.

"I was never born."

She pauses for a long time. "There is one guy that we know who I would probably have sex with."

"Who?"

"Your brother."

Merry fuckin' Christmas.

Calling all geeks

I know you all want to read about what happened after I swapped spit with lil' Heidi, but I have been up since 5:30 trying to fix my computer, which has shit the bed on me again.

I can see my wallpaper, but no icons, no start bar, nothing, can't click my mouse, so I'm just sitting there staring at Mount Pinatubo or whatever that picture is.

Seriously, email or IM me at work if you have any ideas and I will post as soon as I can.

Spin the bottle dice

Saturday, December 11.

"Did you forget?" Stephanie asks.

"Forget what?" I reply.

"I KNEW it!" she smiles. "We have plans with the whole group tonight."

"Oh, THAT."

We are a clique of sorts, the five of us: Me, Steph, Meg, Dom and Heidi. We don't hang out much, but we're always sending funny e-mails around or ringing each other's cell phones to find out how the week is going.

We've been planning this night for quite some time now. Everyone is coming to my place to play trivial pursuit, have a few drinks, and celebrate the holidays.

Stephanie slept over last night. She pretty much lives here on the weekends, but she's always out somewhere studying. And during the week, she's at her apartment, which is a good distance from here, so I actually don't see her as much as you might think. I'm really happy when she is around.

"I was going to offer to help clean up for the party," she says, "and then I realized who I was dealing with."

We both laugh. My house is spotless from top to bottom. It's been decorated for Christmas since the day after Thanksgiving, when I took the well-marked Christmas boxes down from their designated spot in my attic, unpacked wreaths, lights, and decorations, and placed them in their pre-ordained places throughout my house and lawn. There is really nothing to do to get ready, except shop for a few last minute things.

"Oh!" she says. "Heidi was supposed to make her bean dip! I wonder if she remembered!"

She picks up the phone and dials. "Hey. It's Steph. I just-"

Long pause.

"I know, Heidi-"

Long pause. She looks at me and rolls her eyes.

"Heidi, don't worry-"

Pause.

"Heidi! Heidi!" she says, finally. "Two things. First, are you still making your bean dip? Good. Second, here. Talk to Steve."

She hands me the phone, smiling widely. "Talk to her," she says.

"Hey, Heidi!"

"OH my God. Steve, I am stressing!"

"Why?"

"There is this guy in my building? Jamie? And he's like, this perfect guy. He's tall, dark eyes, and he's got this really RUGGED build. He's very RUGGED. And he walks around in all these J. Crew-type sweaters and things, and he says 'hi' to me! Every day! He just, says, 'hi'! And he keeps walking! I'll see him in the laundry room, or in the parking lot, and he never says anything but 'hi'! Why does he do that, Steve? Why doesn't he say anything but 'hi'?"

"I can't really say-"

"So I was thinking, I mean, should I ask him out? I could ask him to the party at your house, right? You wouldn't mind if I asked him over, would you? I mean, I don't think he's gonna tear up the place or something-"

"That's fine."

"Sooooooo, should I ask him out? Should I ask him to your party, or is that too forward, or should I, just, give him my number or something? Does that seem slutty, giving a guy your number, like 'Hey, guy, here's my number'?"

"Ask him to the party."

"But I don't know his name!"

"Introduce yourself."

"What if he says no?"

"Then don't worry about-"

"And what if he says YES? What if he AGREES to come, Steve?"

"Then bring him over."

"Do I drive? Do I let HIM drive? What do I wear? I have NOTHING to wear, Steve!"

"Wear something warm and fuzzy."

"You mean like a sweater?"

"No, like a mop. Of COURSE a sweater. Listen, I gotta go. Let us know how it goes with Mystery Man."

I hang up before she can ask me anything else.

I look at Steph. All we can do is laugh.

**********

7:30. Dom and Meg arrive. Dom's cologne almost knocks me unconscious. "JESUS, man!" I say, waving my hand under my nose.

"I'm competing with you," he smiles, handing me a platter covered in aluminum foil.

Meg kisses me. "Merry Christmas!" she says.

Meg is beautiful. She curled her hair, and she's wearing a tight black skirt with a red sweater, black stockings and matching heels. She's looking extremely do-able tonight.

Steph takes the plate out of my hands and places it on the counter. "I'M the hostess tonight," she says, smiling.

"You two are so funny!" Meg says. "You are so cute!"

Dom grabs my elbow and pulls me gently to the side of the room. "You're making life difficult for me," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"Meg sees how blissful you two are, and she's pushing me to settle down."

"You're shitting me!"

"She keeps saying, 'If STEVE can date one girl exclusively, so can you'."

"Shit!" I say. "I hate how they tell each other everything."

He shrugs. "What are you gonna do? They're best friends."

"What are you two conniving over there?" Meg says.

"We TOTALLY have to watch the two of them when they're together," Steph says.

"Yeah, they're bad news," Meg says, nodding.

"No, Steve knows I trust him," Steph says, smiling at me.

She's wearing a pink short-sleeved mohair sweater and tight jeans. She bends over to pick something up and I stare at her ass, so smooth and round, so perfect-

The doorbell rings. "I'll get it," says Meg.

I hear the door open. Heidi is in mid-sentence. "-I tried the laundry room, I looked all around the parking lot! Everywhere! He's got a Jeep, so I looked all over for the Jeep, and I couldn't find the Jeep! And then I went back to the laundry room, and he wasn't there, and-"

"I'm guessing she's alone," I say to Steph. She laughs.

Heidi looks hotter than I've ever seen her. She's wearing beige slacks and a blue sweater, nothing fancy, really, but everything fits her so perfectly that she looks stunning. Her tits are huge, full and round, and her ass is as ripe as a pair of juicy apples.

"Hey guys!" she smiles. She kisses Dom and I.

"No luck on the guy, eh?" I ask.

"Couldn't find him!" Heidi hands me a slender brown bag. "Merry Christmas, Steve!"

I open the bag. It's a bottle of Jaegermeister. It's so cold that I can barely hold it.

"WOW that's cold!" I say.

"I put it in the freezer! But it doesn't freeze! Isn't that amazing? Alcohol doesn't freeze! Regular soda, or water, would freeze, but-"

Meg hands her a drink.

"We need to chill you out a little bit, hon," Meg says.

**********

It's 10:30. We've played two games of trivial pursuit. I won once, and so did Heidi. We're making everyone else look bad, frankly.

The bottle of Jaeger is empty. So is the Absolut from my fridge, and the white wine that Steph brought. Everyone is fairly smashed.

"Let's play something else!" Heidi says.

"Like what?" says Meg.

"Liiiiiike....no no no, you're gonna think I'm nuts."

"Say it," I say. Why do I get the feeling I'm going to like her idea?

"Let's play spin the bottle," she says. We all burst out laughing.

"We DO have an empty bottle," Dom says.

"Forget the bottle," I say. "We'll use dice."

"DICE?" he says.

"Yeah! You roll the die, and if you roll a one or two you kiss Meg, three and four is Heidi, five or six is.....you roll again!" I say.

We laugh. "No, no, no!" he says. "Five or six, I kiss Stephanie!"

"What about for the girls?" Meg says. "We're not kissing each other!"

"You're not? Damn!" I say. "Actually, we'll do it like this: One through six, you kiss me, seven and up, you kiss Dom."

"But we're only rolling one die!" Heidi says.

"Hey, I tried," I laugh. "OK, one through three is me, four through six, Dom."

"I can't believe we're gonna do this," Meg says. "We are SO loaded."

I have a bad moment as I tear the house apart looking for the die. It's just like when you're about to get laid, and she's on your bed totally naked, and you're scrambling around for a condom, praying she doesn't get up and leave.

I finally dig a die up from an old backgammon set.

Everyone is kneeling around the coffee table. I hand the die to Heidi. "Since it was your idea..." I say.

She rolls a four. "One through three is Steve, right? And four through six is Dom?"

"Yeah." someone says.

We all stare. Are they actually going to do this?

Dom is to her right. She turns to him, and moves in like they are going to make out, but it's just a grandma-style peck on the mouth.

"My turn," Meg says, and rolls a three. That's me!

"OK, who's next!" Dom says. We all laugh.

Meg and I are sitting on opposite sides of the table. She stands up on her knees, grabs the table, and leans in to me.

I like the idea that Dom is watching, that I am about to kiss his girlfriend, that there is sure to be some jealousy there, and that I am the cause of it. I like that Steph is watching, too; I imagine her feeling a mixture of horniness and cattiness, as though she really WANTS to watch but can barely bring herself to do it.

She kisses me long and slow, closing her eyes, savoring it. Her lips taste like root beer. Must be the Jaegermeister, I think.

I am vaguely aware of Dom saying, "Hey, get a room!" The laughter is flowing easily now. Everyone is wasted. Just about anything could happen tonight.

Steph rolls the die. A one.

"Uh-oh," Meg says.

"Hey, am I ever gonna get another turn here?" Dom says.

Steph walks over, straddles my legs, and grabs me by the front of my sweater.

"Whoo-hooo!!" says Heidi.

Steph kisses me dramatically, sliding her full tongue into my mouth, making no effort to hide it. She lowers me down to the floor, then sits up, wiping spit from her bottom lip with her middle finger.

A couple of people hoot and applaud. "We'll finish that later," I say.

"Yes we will," she replies.

Dom's turn. Five. That's Steph's number!

"OO-ooo," says Heidi, quietly. "He's gonna kiss Steve's girlfriend!"

"Do you wanna close your eyes, Steve?" Dom says.

Steph walks over to him on her knees, smiling. She glances over at me, then leans in and kisses Dom full on the mouth.

It seems to last for hours. Dom puts his hand on the small of her back and pulls her close; she doesn't resist.

My stomach burns. For a brief moment, I feel the urge to get up and storm off. Or hit Dom. I cool off quickly, but I'm surprised at how strong my reaction was.

Steph goes back to her seat and smiles at me. "I'm saving the really good kisses for you, sweetie," she says.

"Awwwww," Meg says.

My turn. I roll a three.

Heidi turns red. She looks over at Steph, as if seeking permission.

"Kiss him," Steph says.

Heidi scoots over to me on her knees and I sit up straight to meet her. She throws her arms around my neck and gives me one of the best kisses I have ever had.

She presses her soft, wet lips against mine, just firmly enough to make me notice. I can feel her tits pressing against me, big and firm, just like I thought they would be. I am surprised at how much she is turning me on.

I'm even more surprised when she sticks her tongue in my mouth.

"OH MY GOD!" Meg says.

"HEYY!" says Steph. I can't tell if she's kidding or not.

We separate quickly, and Heidi sits back down. There's a long, awkward silence.

"I made out with the big boss," Heidi says, almost whispering.

We laugh, and everything is ok again.

The mole is Bonnie

It's a no-brainer, really. Bonnie is the only one whe sees most everything that I see. And she is close friends with Claire, Dan's secretary. They talk several times every day.

I don't mind that she tells Claire things, or that Claire tells Dan. In fact, I am proud that communication works so well between the two offices.

**********

I love Christmas shopping.

I love taking in the festive holiday ambience: The strings of shimmering tiny white lights, wrapped around every guard rail and light pole, the green prickly wreaths that hang from doors and windows, the Christmas music that plays endlessly from wall-mounted Bose speakers at the mall, the snow that (hopefully) blankets the ground on Christmas morning.

After Christmas dinner at my house, the men would gather in the family room, and the women in the kitchen. There was a mixture of calm and euphoria as we kids played with our new remote-control cars or video games.

In the late 70's, when mom was sober, she used to make a kick-ass apple cobbler, with loads of cinnamon. She made it every Christmas. The apple-cinnamon smell would waft out of the kitchen and down the hall, making me salivate like the wolf in the old "Three Little Pigs" cartoon. By the time it was ready, I would gobble it down while it was still so hot that it burned the roof of my mouth.

It is these images, the lights, the wreaths, the cobbler, the toys, that come to mind most every time I hear the word "Christmas". I didn't have a great childhood, so I treasure these happy memories very much.

I am in such a holiday way right now that I won't even be cynical about how there are only ten or so Christmas songs that every b-list artist and has-been insists on rehashing for us, so that, starting the day after Thanksgiving, we are treated to 3,341 versions of "Jingle Bell Rock" and "White Christmas".

I find the Pretenders' version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" to be particularly egregious. The holidays are supposed to be happy: Why the hell does Chrissy Hynde [the lead singer] sound like someone stabbed her in the ass with a candy cane? I've heard "Amazing Grace" sung at funerals with more joy.

In no particular order, here are some of my favorite Christmas songs:

1. "Last Christmas" Wham
2. "Do They Know It's Christmas" Band-Aid
3. "Wonderful Christmas Time" Paul McCartney
4. "Happy Christmas (War is over)" John Lennon
5. "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen / Star of Wonder" Barenaked Ladies and Sarah McLachlan
6. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" Frank Sinatra
7. "White Christmas" Drifters
8. "Please Come Home for Christmas" Eagles
9. "12 Days of Christmas" Bob and Doug MacKenzie
10. "Santa and His Old Lady" Cheech and Chong (not a song, but hilarious)
11. "I Saw Three Ships" Sting
12. "Gabriel's Message" Sting
13. "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" U2
14. "Something About Christmas Time" Bryan Adams
15. "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" Nat "King" Cole

It happens most every year: Suddenly, the realization dawns on me that It Is Christmastime, that I have made it through another year, and that there is some relaxation and quality time with family and friends to come. I'll see people I haven't seen in awhile. There will be smiles, and laughs, old music and TV shows that bring back memories of 8:00 bedtimes and sleepless nights spent watching the clock on Christmas Eve. There's a spring in my step that comes with the knowledge that I'll wake up on the morning of the 25th and find a few surprises for me, and I'll surprise a few people, too. It's fun!

Some years the realization never hits me. This year I was driving along, and "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" by Nat King Cole came on my iPod. And just like that, the chilly holiday air hit me in a different way somehow, and I was in the Christmas spirit.

I have to find a gift for Stephanie. She's been great to me, caring and supportive, yet at the same time not smothering. I really want to make this work with her. I want to show her how lucky I feel for having this chance.

Gift-giving is a production of sorts: There is a right and a wrong way to present your gifts. You have to build drama. Suspense.

You start with minor gifts, like the undercard bouts at a WWE wrestling exhibition: You're not bored, but it's not what you came for, either. You finish with a crescendo, the gift that will make her eyes pop. Buy her the electric can-opener she's been bugging you for, sure, but make her open the wide-screen TV last.

I know for sure I am buying her a car stereo. Her car only has a tape deck, and even that doesn't work right. And when your stereo has knobs instead of buttons, people, God is trying to tell you something.

I hate buying junk. If there are three car stereos of the same brand, I'll probably end up with the most expensive one. Why buy a cheaper one, when there is another right next to it with more features?

I'm a fast shopper. If I walk into a store, it's because I am looking for something specific. I don't "browse".

Saturday, December 4.

I go to Circuit City and decide on a really nice Sony CD player for her car, buy it, and leave in less than 10 minutes. The thing's got a remote, too, which I never understood. You're sitting two feet away! Why do you need a remote? I guess it's for when you are getting horizontal in the back seat and Ozzy Ozbourne comes on the radio.

But then again, "I Am Iron Man" would be strangely appropos, wouldn't it?

The stereo was $300. It's her "warmup" gift. It's Wilson Phillips opening up for Madonna. Now for the hard part: What the hell else do I buy her?

I am leaning towards a choker chain and matching thumb rings. I'll keep thinking...

(Bare)back to reality

Steph and I are laying on the couch, our bodies still dripping wet from the hot tub.

"What's wrong," Stephanie asks. "You look like you saw a ghost!"

"I... I can't believe I didn't use a condom!"

I have no idea how I spaced that badly. The only explanation I can think of is that I was so into what was happening that I just totally forgot. I had gone to a place I had not been in a very long time. I let my guard down.

"You are so funny with those condoms," she says. "You're always fumbling around trying to pull them off so you can spoo all over me." Yeah, "spoo" is her cute little word for "cum". Sometimes we'll be going at it hot and heavy, and she'll whisper, "Are you gonna spoo all over me, baby?"

"You pulled out, Steve," she says. "way before you came."

"But that's not-"

"And I AM on the pill."

"I know."

"You said you use condoms every single time. Right?"

"Yeah! That's why I can't believe I did that."

"Remember when I said I believe you and I trust you?"

"Yeah."

"I meant it. I believe that you've been really safe. So we can go without every once in a while if you want."

"Why don't we get tested together, and then we can go without every time?"

"We'll get tested together, but barebacking every time? Uh-uh. Only when I'm not fertile. I don't wanna tempt fate."

**********

Monday, December 6.

Mary from HR stands ominously in my doorway. What the hell does she want NOW?

"Yes ma'am," I say, looking up from what I was doing.

"Did Landon threaten you?" she demands.

"Uh, yeah, he might have said something."

"Did he say, 'You're gonna regret this'?"

"Yes."

"Steve!" she shrieks. "Why didn't you TELL me this earlier? We have to call the police!"

"Mary, drop it!"

"No, Steve, no! If for no other reason, do it for your own personal safety. What if he comes after you?"

"If he comes after me, I'll take care of myself."

"Steve, I HIGHLY recommend we file a police report."

I sigh. Jesus fucking Christ. I do NOT have time for this bullshit.

"Fine, fine. Call them."

**********

Wednesday, December 8.

The police were very concerned about Landon's comment, and about his breaking the pen holder. The chief of police himself went to speak to him.

Looks like Mary was right after all.

The police chief claims that Landon was very apologetic, professional and courteous, and that Landon is going to contact me. I'll believe that when I see it.

Sure enough, at 10:30, my phone rings.

"Steve, this is Landon."

"Hi, Landon."

"Steve, I owe you an apology. You and your staff. I was disrespectful and rude."

"Thanks for saying that, Landon."

"And I know you don't know me as well as some people, but I think you're aware that I'm not the type of person who would go around... seeking revenge, or something. I mean, I... I guess I deserved a lot of that."

I can't decide of Landon is being sincere, or if he's just saying what he has to to get out of trouble. I actually think he means it. If he thought he was right, there's no way he would have given in.

A couple of days later, I get a nice note from Landon, saying basically the same things.

After reviewing Landon's duties with our IT department, I have decided that he didn't even have enough work to justify hiring a replacement.

December 1 - again

Someday, I'll finish telling you what happened on December 1.

"You'll regret it," Landon snarls at me, as he turns and storms out of my office.

"Bonnie, get security on the phone," I shout into my receiver.

"Already done. They want to speak to you! I'm putting them through." she says. Bonnie is awesome.

My phone rings. I pick it up.

"I understand you've got an employee causing you some problems?" A man says.

"He's headed downstairs now," I say. "He's probably going to his office on the first floor."

"Ok, my name is Jared. Can you come down and meet me on the first floor?"

"One of our managers is on his way down now. His name is Dom. I'll be along in a minute."

I dial Dom's cell. "Hello?" he says, out of breath.

"Dom! Where are you?"

"Running downstairs. I don't hear him behind me, so he must have gotten on the elevator."

"Ok, meet Jared from security on the first floor. I'll be right down."

I run past Bonnie's desk. "Dan Johnson is on the phone for you," she says.

"Tell him I'm all tied up!"

I fling open the door to the stairwell and scurry down nine flights of stairs.

"Ah don' giva fuck WHAT you need to do," Landon is yelling at Jared, "Ahm OUTTA here!"

He turns and walks the rest of the way out of the building. Dom, Jared, and I watch him go.

"Should I alert the police?" Jared asks.

"No. Let's get his office cleaned up," I say, looking at Dom.

The two of us stride down a quiet hallway to Landon's office, and open the door.

It's nondescript, really, just four empty walls and a six-foot wooden table with a flat-screen monitor and a couple of 4 X 6 snapshots of horses resting on it. The keyboard rests on the table, in front of the monitor, and it strikes me as very odd that Landon didn't even have a computer desk with a keyboard tray.

There's an HTML reference book resting on a two-drawer file cabinet. We open the two drawers. Empty.

"Where's all his stuff?" Dom says.

"I don't know!" I say.

My cell phone goes off.

"This is Steve."

It's Dan Johnson. He's laughing hysterically.

"Steve! Ste-he-he-heeeeeve!" he roars.

"Dan?"

"Steve, what have you learned today?"

"I've learned that I need a new programmer."

"I heard! And I couldn't be more delighted!" He says.

"You HEARD? ALREADY? I fired him 15 minutes ago!"

"I've known for five minutes, too!" he says.

"How did you find out?"

"I have my sources."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Steve, I'm sending Ralph up there today. There are a lot of things you need to do to... protect the company's assets."

"From Landon?"

"Yes. We think he's got the capability to hack into your network there. And ours."

"Ok, we'll give him our undivided attention when he gets here."

"No, you'll give it to him NOW," Dan says. "Get your guy Chris on the phone with Ralph right away. There are some things that need to be done this minute."

"Dom, run upstairs and tell Chris to call Ralph at corporate. They think Landon had some back doors into the system."

Dom takes off.

"Steve, it's gonna be tough to replace Landon. He was a good one. But he was also a flaming prick. No one liked him at all. Still, it took a lot of balls to fire him. I WISH I could have seen the look on his face! I'm very proud of you, Steve."

"Dan, I appreciate it, but you know, it was actually pretty easy. He threw my-"

"Your paperweight?"

"No, it was a pen-and-pencil holder. Your source let you down, Dan."

"Steve, it wasn't easy. He's been pulling shit like that for years. I'm glad you got rid of him. Just make sure his projects get handed off."

"I will."

"And make sure your people close those back doors! Work with Ralph!"

"We will."

I get back to my office, and Mary from HR is standing by Bonnie's desk, waiting for me.

"Steve. We need to talk," she says sternly. She reminds me of a ruler-wielding nun at a Catholic school.

"We've got a lot of work to do," I say.

Suffice to say, Mary is pissed. Landon has never been written up for any infraction. None of his uncooperative and disruptive behavior was ever documented. His file is clean, and he got good reviews.

"He could sue us for wrongful termination!" Mary exclaims. "Not to mention, we can forget about disputing his claim for benefits."

"He's not under contract. This is an employment-at-will state. What the hell is he gonna sue us for?" I ask.

"You'd be surprised. Without documentation, he can claim whatever he wants!"

Mary spends a long time milking me for examples of Landon's escpades. She meticulously documents every detail.

I love the HR folks dearly, I really do. But is there a more uptight group of people in business?

"They are just trying to protect you from being sued or getting sanctioned by the government," you say.

PLENTY of people can get us sued. PLENTY of people can get us fined. Just about anyone can, actually. One late tax deposit can cost us $10,000 in IRS penalties, and you don't see the accounting people walking around with their worry-faces on all the time, do you?

**********

Monday, December 6, 2004.

Chris and Ralph have been working for days to lock down our network and analyze the status of Landon's projects.

"It's the funniest thing about Landon's scheduler," Ralph says. "He built it as a web app, so the folks at the call center could all access it easily."

"So?" I say.

"Well, he built it using MySQL, and he had all the telemarketing people keying contact information into it. Eight or nine people were keying at the same time and it crashed."

"What information did he have them keying?"

"Everything. It was a blank database."

"WHAT?!" I say. "We paid a shitload of money for that prospect database. We already HAD that data! We could've dumped a file out of there and imported it into his database easily! PLUS, we don't pay those guys to key; we pay them to make phone calls!"

"I know. It only would've taken him an hour or so to build a routine to do that, IF he knew what he was doing, which he appeared to. It's a nice app, he just didn't go the extra mile."

It makes you wonder how much time and money he's wasted for us over the last twenty years.

Acing our exams

Thursday, December 2, 1:30.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow," I say, as I walk to the front door of the office.

"Have fun," Dom says, with a devilish grin.

I didn't tell Dom where I was going. He doesn't know about Steph's exam, or about my talk with her last night, or that we are dating exclusively now. Or at least he doesn't know from ME.

Meg and Stephanie are best friends. Evidently, Stephanie tells Meg everything about us, and Meg reports back to Dom, who she is still screwing.

I really can't stand it when people know my dating business. They tend to ask an awful lot of questions, or give unsolicited advice, or try to cock-block me when they know what I am up to. I keep everything to myself when it comes to the girls I am seeing.

I gotta speak to Steph about that. I should have already.

**********

I pull up next to Steph's car and start reviewing a monthly sales report. It's 30 pages. I get the feeling that, if it were written properly, it could be four pages, and I wouldn't miss anything. I scribble furiously in the margin.

There's a knock at the window.

It's Steph. She's smiling brightly. Her hair is down. She looks happy for the first time in a while.

I roll down the window. She kisses me. "I ACED it!" she says.

"Awesome! Let's go!" I say.

She jumps in the car. "I sat down and tried to think of what questions he was going to ask, and I predicted them almost exactly!"

"I used to do that, too!"

"So where are we going?" she says.

"We're going to hot tub heaven," I say.

"Your house?"

"Yeah."

"I don't have a bathing suit."

"So?"

**********

It's 106 degrees in the spa. The water bubbles and churns as if we were in a giant tea kettle.

"I have a confession to make," she says.

"You watch Dr. Phil?"

"No. Remember that sweatshirt I borrowed?"

"The Newport one?"

"Yeah."

"The one that smells like me?"

"Yeah! All that time that we were fighting..." she pauses. "I totally shouldn't tell you this."

"Tell me."

"I slept in bed with it every night."

"So you cheated on me with my sweatshirt," I smile.

"Mm-hmm."

"I didn't realize you liked b.o. that much!"

"It DOESN'T have b.o. on it! It smells just like you! I love how it smells!"

The ends of her long hair hang wetly by her shoulders. Every once in a while, she sits up higher and I can see a crescent moon of breast.

I slide closer to her. She looks up at me, her face wet and dripping, her eyes wide.

"I missed you," I say.

"Me too." She is gazing at me, open-mouthed, just like a little girl.

We kiss. There's something really soothing about making out with steam rising all around you.

She puts her arms around my shoulders and straddles me. Her naked thighs are firm and tight against mine under the water.

I brush gently against her tit with my thumb, feeling her nipple go erect under my touch. I brush against it again, then cup it fully in my hand, caressing it, feeling its smoothness and heft.

Her breasts are beautiful, firm and round and perfectly symmetrical. When I look at them I know that Pam Anderson and Carmen Electra got it exactly wrong, with their big, round, fake-looking basketballs.

I fondle both of her breasts gently, then one, then the other, gently squeezing her nipples between my fingers.

She moans as she kisses me, raising her body up a little higher so her tits are exactly at mouth level.

I look up at her. She is smiling wryly down at me.

I flatten my tongue and brush it over her right nipple. I look up again. Her eyes close. She's got both of her hands behind my head, pulling me tightly against her.

I lick her again, holding her other boob in my hand. I swirl my tongue around her areola without ever touching the nipple. I've made girls come this way before.

Her breathing is short and shallow. I switch to the other breast and lick it, slowly, bottom to top, feeling her nipple go bullet-hard.

She is trembling. I look up at her again. I open my mouth to speak and realize that I am breathing just as heavily as she is.

I don't like fucking underwater. It doesn't feel like anything to me.

"I think it's time to go inside," I say.

"It's TOTALLY time to go inside," she says, softly.

We fling our wet, naked bodies on the first piece of furniture in our way, a sectional sofa. She straddles me again, grinding forwards and backwards against my hard rod.

I can feel her lubricating as she rubs against me, slicking my cock with her juices. She pulls her hips forward, so that the tip disappears under her, then back again, her labia peeking out from a tuft of short pubic hair.

She plants her fists on my chest, bending over slightly, her tits dangling invitingly above me. She slides her hips forward, in slow motion.

Pop! I slip inside her.

She immediately hits a rhythm, sliding her hips seamlessly back and forth, her breasts heaving.

A quivering moan escapes her lips; her eyes are closed, and her fists push harder against my chest.

This girl is going to have a HUGE orgasm.

Her breathing gets louder and faster as she fucks me more urgently. I feel her vaginal muscles spasm wildly. She tips her head back, fully in the throes of pleasure.

She collapses down on me, pressing our naked, still-wet bodies together. I pull out of her and slip my cock between us. "Don't forget about me," I smile.

"I won't."

She rubs her pussy against me again, and as I feel her heat and slipperyness I know that I am totally gone. I don't try to hold it back. I couldn't anyway.

Cum explodes everywhere, mostly on me. Gross? Kinda, but as long as I don't hit myself in the face, I'm ok.

She laughs a little as she gazes at me, still laying on top of me, her legs bent at the knees, her feet rocking slowly in the air. Her eyes search my face, as though she is memorizing every detail of this moment. She reminds me of that Christian dude on the album cover. She is at peace. I am too.

Just then, the realization stabs me in the gut like a 12-inch machete, waking me from the blissful afterglow.

Holy shit, I think. I fucking barebacked her!