So anyway, like I was sayin....

We've kissed before.

We've touched, squeezed, and rubbed, and nibbled. But there always seemed to be something keeping us from letting it get too far.

It always seemed to be inopportune for Jenny and me; it always seemed that there was too much risk of getting caught, or that we would just do it next time. Part of me thinks that it wasn't so much the circumstances as it was her inhibition. HERS, not mine, because I certainly had none.

Jenny is intelligent. She shouts out answers while watching Jeopardy!. She is bright enough to be a physician's assistant, a step below a doctor, and assertive enough to give medical advice to pushy parents of sick kids. She is a person of substance, someone who any guy would be proud to be with.

Sure, I find all that attractive. But that's not why I think about Jenn so much. The real reason is that we are related, that we are not supposed to be doing this, that bedding her would be pushing the envelope just a bit further, taking another risk, another gamble, knowing that the consequences could be huge and not only not caring, but wanting to do it, if only for the knowledge that I can get away with it.

Today is going to be different. Today, we are alone, at my house. For once, the mood is right. The recessed lights in my drop ceiling are dimmed silghtly; the TV is off; it's a beautiful night, with just a hint of a breeze blowing in through a slightly-opened window.

Finally, I think, and I can't help but feel the way Wile E. Coyote might after catching the Road Runner at long last. But Jenn certainly is no victim. I ain't the studliest guy in the world, but I know a booty call when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.

My hand whispers up her black silk blouse and finds the top button. It slips effortlessly through the buttonhole, exposing a shadowy patch of flesh.

Another button. Another. She moves her shoulder just a bit to the side so I can reach the ones at the bottom, and that little movement, that voluntary flexing of a muscle, lets me know for sure that I am going to have sex tonight.

Her blouse shimmies down her shoulders, exposing a black satin bra to match her blouse. Our mouths crash together as the rest of our clothes tumble off and I feel the warm press of her naked breasts against me for the very first time.

Her sultry, dark eyes open as I enter her, my pulse pounding in my ears, my hands almost too weak to hold her. My eyes pore over her body, drinking in every curve and contour as if admiring a priceless statue.

She crooks one leg, then the other, around mine and pulls me more tightly against her.

I want to remember this, all of it; her soft smell, the way her thick black curls pool on the sofa cushion behind her head, the almost musical rising and falling of our bodies, the whisper of her breath against my neck and the desperate urgency with which we pull ourselves ever closer together.

We have been flirting since I was 12 years old. Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of sly smiles, and hugs that lasted a little too long. We wanted this, both of us, and we have for a while. And ever since mom's party, I've thought about it even more often. To be honest, I never thought it would happen, and I still don't quite understand the circumstances. It didn't seem like THAT big of a fight. Anyway, I don't care.

We lay there, basking in the post-sex warmth, her legs still grapevined around mine, her hands linked behind my shoulder blades, her hot skin pressed pliantly against mine, her eyes closed firmly, as if to open them would be to release the moment like a puff of smoke.

As I study her face, and feel her body tight against mine, I know that I can't be all that bad, because someone truly loves me.

But not to worry: It's only a minute before I realize that I am probably full of shit.

We're getting there....

I don't want to.

No, I SHOULDN'T want to. Big difference.

Tim stopped seeing Dom a month ago. Told him it was getting old, that they both needed to move on. It was a transaction they each carried out periodically, emotionlessly, like a busboy clearing dirty dishes and wiping with a damp cloth 37 times in one night, and then not remembering any specific table the next day.

She never mentioned my name specifically. Neither did he. But they both thought about me, because I had woven my way into each of their lives, tangling and knotting and complicating their relationship like a slinky that's been stretched too far, so irretreivably twisted and malformed that the only solution is to throw it in the garbage.

Dom and I went drinking one night, two weeks after the breakup. The conversation made its usual rounds, from work, to current events, to sports, and Dom's voice was as soft as an eye pillow, his disposition as cool as a slushy drink with an umbrella in it. Like always.

But as the bartender's tray became more and more crowded with empty glasses, the ice thawed and dribbled, and Dom's eyebrows tried harder and harder to meet in the middle of his forehead. The air tasted sour, like a Margarita with too much lime juice.

He stared at me from the sides of his eyes, not turning his head. "The only reason you know her is because of me."

I expected him to say more. He didn't. His words hung in the air next to me, like an invisible bar patron in the next stool.

Dom couldn't have cared about Tim. Dom, who probes the vagina of a different blonde ingenue every Friday night, could not have been affected by this. He was too jaded, too emotionally unavailable, to care. He was INCAPABLE of caring!

And yet, the words still sat there, next to me, looking at me with their sad, drunk eyes.

I asked him who he was talking about, but I already knew. I needed time to process what he had said, and to conjure a reply.

I cupped my hand and rubbed his shoulder, as if polishing it. "It's just like you said, Dom: Next week, there'll be someone else. Right?"

"Right, Steve," he said, staring first at his Beck's Bier coaster, then at the movie posters on the wall.

It would have been considerate to stop seeing Tim. And professional, and smart, and selfless. And so I searched every inch of my psyche, combing it the way you would a wine cellar in search of the last bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, looking for just a thimbleful of compassion, enough to allow me to hear my words with someone else's ears.

I found nothing.

I didn't care.

I didn't. Fucking. Care.

Tim and I dated, and IM'd, and chatted on the phone, and gradually learned to finish each other's sentences and to make each other's day by calling just to say 'hi'.

Then it was disclosure, an agreement under which we bedded who we wanted, but confessed all to each other when we did.

Healthy communication, you say? Trust, you say? HORSESHIT, I say.

She confessed more than I did. A lot more. She confessed every fucking week. Sometimes twice a week. And each confession was just like a sewing needle through the groin of a voodoo doll that looked like me. It was a sexual call to arms, a booty-knocking gauntlet being thrown down right in front of me. She was getting more than I was, and my pride could not accept that.

She fucked, and then I fucked back, and then I raised her fucking with more fucking. And then she fucked in return, and pretty soon I was Reagan and she was Gorbachev, and this was a sexual arms race. And somehow, all the while, every visit ended with a smile, every email with a happy emoticon, every phone call with a "take care!"

Well? Did we want to kill each other, or were we in love?

I didn't know. But we decided to date each other exclusively anyway.

After all of these weeks, I should have been feeling something. By "something", I don't mean envisioning her in a $20,000 Vera Wang gown with a cathedral-length veil and a fistful of cartoonishly red roses, or seeing us at an obstetrician's office, a technician rubbing cold gel into the basketball-like bulge in her abdomen, and looking up at a grainy black and white screen, joking that the little guy looked just like an alien. But I should have felt SOMETHING more than I did, which was basically nothing except, "I want to fuck you."

It's come to me in flashes. With Stephanie, yes, and moreso with Lila, I did sometimes feel like I wanted to be with one person forever. But they were just teasing glimpses, like someone tapping me on the shoulder and then running away before I could turn around.

In each case, the relationships built very slowly. So if anything was going to happen with Tim, it was going to take time. She was nice enough to be around, and she certainly wasn't afraid to take her clothes off for me. Besides, I was tired of scouring my BlackBerry for girls with names like "Chrissy" and "Jamie", and saying, "You've been on my mind lately" and "I'd love to buy you a drink sometime," when she hadn't and I wouldn't. So why not?

That was two weeks ago. And now, here is Jenny, right in front of me, Jenny, with her tumbling black curls, and the thick, heavy tits under her blouse, and the sexy, compassionate way in which she so selflessly helps ailing boys and girls feel better, and the horny manner in which she has just asked me to play her the 15-second porn clip that I was jerking off to when she walked in.

I play it. Cocks penetrate the young girl's vagina and anus, pumping in feverish rhythm, like pistons in a horny engine.

I turn around. She's biting her lip.

The mouse, slick with sweat, slips out of my hand. I sit down next to her on the couch.

"Why did you come here?"

We kiss.

The depths of my debauchery

Wednesday, September 7, 2005
10:32pm
Steve's house

Everyone's got their own way of winding down.

Some people take bubble baths. Some kick back with a beer. Some do crossword puzzles.

Me? I watch porn.

The Hun. BangBus. OxPass. CumFiesta. Mr. Chew's Asian Beaver. Qmov. One ultra-hard core, ultra-close up, ultra-graphic depiction of sexual intercourse after another; each teenaged, big-breasted, pouty-lipped, completely shaved, loudly moaning female somehow hotter than the one who came before.

I sit and watch, and feel that familiar tingle. I look down and see that bulge, and I watch as my hand makes its inexorable way underneath my boxers.

I rub and stroke and pull, and marvel at how a part of my body can double in size so quickly.

There's an art to jerking off. You kind of.... tease yourself. You stimulate yourself, almost to orgasm, then you back off, just a bit. Then you do it again, and again, until you are so horny that your balls ache. Then, THEN, when you can't stand it anymore, you release.

I'm watching a video on Qmov. "I want it in my ass," says a horny teenaged girl.

The film cuts to two guys with impossibly huge schlongs violently DP'ing her. Her asshole is stretched cavernously wide; her pussy turns inside out as she gets fucked. "Ughhh," she moans.

My cock goes stiff, stretching against my boxers. It feels good! I reach down for it, squeezing it between my fingers, outside my pants...

creeeeeeak!

My computer room is in a finished basement. The third step from the bottom squeaks when you step on it. I've been meaning to nail it down, but I haven't gotten around to it.

Someone is coming. Instinctively, I let go of my pants and click the little black "X" in the upper right corner of the screen. I turn to my right.

It's my cousin Jenny.

She walks crookedly across my carpet, as if blown by the wind.

Is she drunk?

"Hey Jenn!"

"Hi!" she blinks in slow motion, and for a moment, I think she's nodded off where she stands, but slowly her eyelids open again. Her movements are deliberate and lethargic, like a toy that needs new batteries.

I always leave my garage door open all day, and only close it before I go to bed. The door that leads from garage to kitchen is always unlocked, too, so anyone who was inclined to do so could enter my house very easily. That's just what Jenny did.

"Are you ok?" I ask, searching her face for clues. But my gut feeling is that she is loaded.

"I'm afraid I've had a little too much to drink." She gropes behind her for the couch and pats it, to make sure it's not going anywhere. She plops down. "Bill and I had a very. large. argument."

A large argument? Shoulda super-sized it. You woulda saved money!

"About?"

"He took a two-month job out of state without discussing it with me."

"Out of state where?"

"Wyoming."

"Jesus!"

"I know."

She is rocking this way and that in her seat, as if she were on a boat. "I'm sorry, Jenn, I'm sure he-"

"What were you watching before, Steve?"

"Nothing," I chuckle.

"Tell me!"

"Jenn. Guys are different. I'm sorry if I offended you, but you didn't ring-"

"Steve. TELL me!"

My stomach flips. my cock, which had gone back to normal, rises back to instant, rigid attention. She wants to fuck. SHE WANTS TO FUCK!

"You really want to know?"

"Uh-huh."

"It was a girl. Getting DP'd."

"What?"

"Double penetrated. One in the front-"

"And one anally."

"Yeah, so that's what I was watching," I say, staring intently at the baseboards.

"Show me."

"I did it for you, baby"

Friday, June 24th, 2005 (continued)

I decide to go for it. Tim is neatly trimmed down there, which helps with both the hair issue and the smell. With a lesser girl, I might hold out. This time, no way. The sex was too good the first time.

I flatten my tongue and run it over her pussy, bottom to top, then do it again. And again. By the fifth or sixth time, she's starting her "Ah!Ah!Ah!" moan, and I am wishing I could somehow harness her crotch heat, because it feels like it could replace a nuclear reactor.

She doesn't taste bad at all, neutral really, which is a huge victory when it comes to pussy-eating. With each lick she grows wetter, until the entire lower part of my face is hot and slippery.

I slip my index finger inside her and point it upward, as if trying to feel her bellybutton from the inside. I run it along the roof of her vagina as I pull it back, and when it's almost out, I slip a finger from the other hand inside behind it and do the same thing, then follow it with the first finger again. The result, hopefully, is constant stimulation to an extremely sensitive area.

I've never tried it before, and it's awkward as hell, but it seems to be working. Her moaning grows louder. She shifts her legs this way and that, her heels rubbing against my back. My finger slows to an almost complete halt and I slide my wet tongue over her again, pausing to admire the way her tits shift heavily as she writhes from side to side.

I coax her clit gently with my tongue. "Ohhhh, SHIT," she whispers. Her body starts to tense.

I take her clit into my mouth and slowly pull it out. It's hard, like an erect nipple.

"Oh my God, I'm coming!"

It took me completely by surprise.

A hard, jetlike shot of... something squirts out of her, spraying my face. It's over in an instant, and when the shock wears off, I realize that it's in my mouth. I taste it, and almost puke.

It's acrid and bitter, like piss - or at least the way I would expect piss to taste. Instinctively, I spit, and wipe my face on her bedspread.

"Kiss me."

You asked for it, honey.

What have you learned today since July 6th?

To lick or not to lick

Friday, June 24, 2005 11:00pm
Tim's house

We've somehow wound up in Tim's kitchen again. There's a painting of a rose-filled vase on the wall; the color scheme matches her decor exactly. On the far wall, there's a window-sized opening overlooking her living room; through it, I see a huge, wood-framed mirror and an expensive-looking couch.

"Do you ever go without a condom?"

"No. Why?"

"Just curious. It's funny. Most guys don't want to use one, but I noticed you didn't even ask."

"Right. I use 'em 100% of the time."

"Why?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"I'm on the pill."

"There are other reasons to wear a condom."

"I know."

"It's no coincidence that I've never caught anything."

"NEVER?"

"Never."

"How many women have you been with?"

"A lot."

She smiles. "I KNEW you're weren't gonna tell me."

11:30.

We're sitting in front of the TV, drinking Margaritas. Tim has managed to find a Melrose Place rerun. Heather Locklear is making out with some dude, from whom she will no doubt be extorting cash, or firing, in the next scene.

"Did you ever notice how when people kiss on TV, their lips are never lined up right? Look! It looks like he's kissing her upper lip!" she says, jabbing at finger at the screen.

"Well, it's Heather Locklear, so I guess he's not holding out for someone hotter."

"Has anyone ever told you you are a very good kisser?" she smiles, turning to face me.

"Yeah. I hit the lips every time!"

"You ARE!"

I feel my cock go stiff. Her voice is sexy, slightly husky and soft. And my stomach is going so crazy that putting those Margaritas in the blender was totally unncessary.

I lean in to her and stop with our mouths an inch apart. I look at her lips. She looks at mine. We kiss so softly that at first I am not even sure we're touching. Her fingers wrap softly around my wrist; I hear the clink of her placing her glass on the table.

I pull away from her for just a moment and look at her, all of her: She's wearing a dark blue off-the-shoulder flowered sundress, and one leg is folded under her body, with the other dangling off the side of the couch. Her left hand grips her naked ankle; the other my wrist. Her blonde hair hangs over one shoulder and behind the other, exposing her long, slender neck, and her eyes are closed, her feather-duster eyelashes resting against her cheeks.

I smell her hair, a big, flowery smell, like a huge bouquet. I suddenly remember that, the first night I was with her, I returned home and woke up the next morning somehow still smelling it.

It's a moment just like the one in the hotel room with Lila last summer, a snapshot of flawless beauty, a scene so pleasing to the senses that it makes me grateful to be alive.

She's saying something. "....gonna run out on me again?"

"No, baby."

"So kiss me." And I do. Our mouths open and our tongues find one another, pressing hotly together, then apart, then together again, with equisite slowness.

I feel the soft skin of her hands as they slip around the back of my neck. As crazy as it may sound, her touch gives me goosebumps.

The kissing gets harder. Our bodies press together more tightly. I am so weak with desire that I doubt I could stand upright, even if I wanted to.

Her fingertips glide slowly across my cheeks, then through my hair, then again to the back of my neck. She pulls away from me; I open my eyes and she is staring at me.

My hands have found their way around her waist. Her leg is draped over mine. I am pulling her body so closely against me that the two of us barely take up half the couch.

I've got it bad for this girl. Tim does something to me; she always has. She doesn't do anything fancy: The conversation isn't the most interesting, and the food and drinks aren't the best I've ever tasted. But she somehow manages to set a mood, and I get the impression that she's in control of every single thing that happens.

I draw a deep, flowery breath. I'm relaxed and at peace. I'm happy. I'm having fun, so much so that I don't want this moment to end.

Shit. I sound like a lovesick teenager. LISTEN to me!

My hand wanders slowly between her thighs. She looks down for a moment.

"I believe it's your turn this time."

"What do you mean?" I think I know, but I want to hear it from her.

She unzips her dress and slides it down, revealing a statuesque, gorgeously nude body, quite possibly the most beautiful body I have ever seen. Sure, I've seen it before, but it stops my heart just the same.

She lays back down on the couch, straddling me with her legs, then fixes her eyes pleadingly onto mine.

I don't like going down on a girl until I've known her for a while, and until I'm fairly certain that she's not warming every cock in her zip code. Tim clearly does not qualify. So why am I considering it?

I'm considering it for a lot of reasons. I'm dangerously horny now, and I'll be in major physiological trouble if I don't have sex; plus, I don't want to jepardize a sure thing. What, exactly, is so bad about going down on a girl, anyway? Well, besides the smell, and the taste, and the way those kinky hairs stick in the back of your throat and make you want to throw up?

"I did it for you, baby," she purrs.

"Something suddenly came up..."

Thursday, June 23, 2005, 1:30pm
Steve's office

I told Heather, the girl from the drycleaners, that I would call later in the week to make arrangements for Friday.

"Hellooo?"

She sounds younger than I remember. She almost sounds like a kid, for Christ's sake! A LITTLE kid!

"May I .... speak to Heather?"

"Hold on!"

I hear the plastic thunk of what sounds like a receiver hitting ceramic tile. "Mommy!" the voice says, faintly.

Holy shit! She's got a kid?

"Who's this?" It's the kid again.

"This is Steve."

"It's STEVE, mom."

Heather picks up. "Hi, Steve!"

"Hey! Do you have a minute?"

"Yes. Casey, go pick up your Play-Doh, honey."

"Mommeeee? Who's Steeeeeve?" I hear in the background.

"NOW."

"So how old is your daughter?"

"Six. Going on 25."

"Uh-huh."

"Didn't I tell you I had a daughter?"

"No."

I've been with maybe 2 or 3 moms before. It's not that I avoid them; it's just that I usually pursue young, unattached girls, and most of them have not had kids.

Heather doesn't seem like the type who would step out on a husband, so I'm guessing she's a single mom. She wasn't wearing a ring, that much I know. Having a child is a lot of work, as my brother reminds me all the time, and if she's a single mom, she probably has a full-time job as well, which all adds up to a very full plate for one woman. And a full plate means little time for a serious relationship, which means that she's starting to sound like a very good fuck buddy candidate!

"Yep, I have one daughter. And I should probably tell you something before we go out..."

"What's that?"

"Well, technically I'm still married," she says with a little laugh. "My divorce will be final in a week."

"I see."

"I mean, it's totally over. The only reason I even talk to him is because of Casey, and then it's just hello and goodbye."

"I understand."

"So you still wanna go out?"

"Sure!"

"So where're you taking me?"

"How about Annabelle's?"

"Ooooh, that seafood place? That sounds AWESOME!"

"Yep, that's the one. Can I pick you up tomorrow at 7:00?"

"OK!"

**********

3:00pm

Tim never did call me after that night, and I never called her. But I did say I would call, and my plan was to wait until at least today to contact her, if she hadn't already done so.

"Hello?"

"Tim!"

"Steve? Is that you?"

"Yeah! How are you, Tim?"

"I'm fine! Just trying to line up some more catering jobs. How ARE you?"

"Great! Pretty busy."

"Ohhh."

"Listen, I don't want to take you away from work. I was just wondering if you're free Saturday night."

"No, my cousin is getting married out of state. I'm gonna be gone from Saturday until late Sunday or Monday."

"Ah, bummer."

I wonder if she'll suggest tomorrow. And I wonder what I'll say if she does.

"How about tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow..."

I could go out with Heather, and then meet Tim afterwards. No, too hectic. I'll be rushing Heather, and I don't want to do that on a first date. I suppose I could try to reschedule Heather, but there's no guarantee she'll be free on Saturday. Then again, anyone who says, "I haven't been on a date in months" probably doesn't have a full social calendar.

"Yeah, tomorrow!"

"OK."

"Can you come over around ten?"

"How about 10:30?" I don't want to be too agreeable, now.

"Sure!"

**********

4:00pm

"Heather, it's Steve. I have a small problem..."

A little barbecue sauce with this crow, please

Monday, June 20, 2005, 12:05pm
Suzanne's Restaurant

I always go over employee annual reviews at the restaurant of the employee's choice. It's a great way to make that person feel special, and to ensure that we won't be interrupted. As much.

Dom is, on balance, a very good employee and manager, but I believe everyone has areas on which they can improve, and I work hard to find such areas for everyone I review. Sometimes I'm accused of being nit-picky, or of trying to drive down the quality of the review so I can award the employee less of a raise. But an "everything's fine" review does not help anyone.

Dom and I have not gotten along very well since he busted me at Tim's house. He hasn't done anything overt; he just seems a lot busier lately. Work-wise, we've put our heads together and solved many complicated problems, or dealth with difficult people, but when someone puts us on hold and Celene Dion wafts tinnily out of my speaker phone, we both look uneasily at the pictures on my wall and away from each other.

Today is no exception. He's nodding and saying "Mm-hmm" at all the appropriate places, and listening intently. But it's very awkward. I guess I should not be surprised about that.

Dom doesn't care about Tim. He doesn't CARE about any woman, except, apparently, his grandmother out west. What is probably bothering him is that I disrespected him as a friend. That WAS kind of shitty.

"Dom, you know what I mean by "closing the loop," right?

"Mm-hmm. You follow up, keep the communication open, make sure everyone knows what's going on, make sure everything's resolved."

"Basically. Remember when we were submitting those returns online?"

"Yes, I remember, Steve."

"You had Paul send them in for you, which is fine. But that was the first time we ever filed that way-"

"...and it turned out that the returns were all rejected, but the rejections were in an attachment, not in the body of the email, and the attachment was blocked by the firewall, so Paul didn't see it," he says, impatiently.

"And you didn't ask to see the email."

"We've been over this ground before, Steve."

"Like I always say, there should be no surprises at an employee review. You should already know how you're doing, if I am doing my job right."

"I know."

"There's a fine line between delegating and leaving employees unsupervised. Most of the time, you're ok. Occasionally, something like this happens. It's not a huge deal, just something to work on."

"Steve, this is one incident. It's not a trend."

It's a typical employee-review tactic. If your boss doesn't cite examples, you nail him for not backing up what he says. If he gives you ONE example, you say it's an isolated incident.

"We've had this conversation before, about other issues. Again, your review is very good overall, Dom!"

He grumbles, swirling the water in his glass.

I am tired of this wedge between Dom and me. He's far too cocky to tell me this is bothering him, and I am too cocky to apologize. But I guess it's time to choke down some pride, since this whole thing is more my fault than his.

"Dom, I think we need to talk."

He looks up at me, suddenly, wide-eyed.

"I did something I'm ashamed of."

He sees the way my eyes sink slowly downward, he hears the hesitation in my voice. He knows of what I speak. He nods, slowly. "Forget it."

Am I ashamed? Not really. As far as I am concerned, this kind of thing is pretty Darwinian, or at least it should be. I fucked her that night, and he did not, which must mean that I had something to offer that he didn't. Next time, he'll win and I'll lose, maybe, and we'll all get on with our lives.

No, I am doing this for Dom's sake, and for mine. I don't like the discomfort between us. He probably knows that I am full of shit, but I'm sure he appreciates the gesture.

"No. You're a friend, and... that's no way to treat a friend."

"I told you she wasn't my girlfriend."

"This isn't about her. It's about me and you."

"It's just like I said, Steve. After what... happened, I knew you'd end up with Tim."

"Right."

"That's why I apologized for that, because I was wrong."

"So you have NO problem at all about what happened?"

He shrugs. "I know Tim. I know this was probably her idea. But it was a little embarrassing."

"Uh-huh."

"Seeing your car in the driveway, after she told me she was sick..."

"Yeah, that was pretty awkward."

"A phone call would have been nice, Steve."

"I know. I apologize."

"You wanna be with her, I don't CARE. I don't GIVE a shit about her. You know how she is; she's a fucking putan. You want to do her, I'll go find someone else. Just TELL me."

"I know."

"Just close the loop, Steve."

"Touche."

Things not to say to a prospective suitor, 101

Friday, June 17, 2005, 8:30pm
Ming Garden Restaurant / Bar

I've been here before, but just to eat. The bar section is hidden off to the side, behind a pair of French doors, like an unruly child.

"There's ALL kindsa honies in this place!" Troy says through a tight smile, his eyes narrowed confidently. "I hook up all the time here!"

Troy invited Dom, but he declined. Dom's never commented on the Tim incident, but we haven't been out drinking since then, and we haven't spoken much socially.

It's Karaoke night. Or at least I assume it is, based on the chick at the front of the room, shreiking her way through "Fame" by Irene Cara. Her performance would be a little less difficult to watch if she took the pocketbook off her shoulder as she performed her epileptic dance moves.

I've decided I need a fuck buddy. No, I need three or four. I need a bevy of pussies-in-waiting to allow me to get laid at an hour's notice no matter what time it is. I need triple-redundancy, the capability to have sex NOW, even if option one is on her period, and option two is on vacation.

I've never truly had a fuck buddy. I suppose Vicky counts, but I only see her maybe three or four times a year. No, the girls I am with always wind up thinking they are my girlfriend. I never come out and tell them that, but they just assume it in time. They get attached, and I cut and run, and it ends badly. It's always the same story. Obviously, I am not making my point clearly enough with them.

I am going to try something with the next one I meet: I will tell her in no uncertain terms that I don't want a relationship. Sure, I'll lose a few prospects that way. But the ones who stick around won't have any illusions. At least not at the beginning.

My eyes travel from female to female: Too fat. Too old. Already surrounded by three guys. Too drunk. Too skinny. Too much makeup. Rotten teeth. This place sucks.

"Troy, where are all these girls you were talking-"

"What's your drink, Steve? What're you havin'?" He slaps my back with a steely hand, almost knocking me off my stool.

"Vodka tonic."

"You GOT it, boss!"

Two hours pass. Troy is trying hard, but there's really not much to work with. When I see him talking to a spiky-haired chick with a tattoo on her neck, I know it's time to intervene. Has this guy forgotten who he's already fucking?

"C'mere, Troy."

"'Sup, guy? Havin' a good time?"

"This place is dead."

He nods slowly, like a child being scolded. "I'm sorry, Steve. It's usually really good-"

"Don't worry about it, Troy. I appreciate the invite."

He sighs. "I should probably call Ally, anyway."

"How come you're not with her tonight?"

"Girls' night out."

"Ahhhh."

"Ah fuckin' hate tha'. I really wanted to see'er tonight." He's slurring his words badly. No wonder he was hitting on that West-Coast-Chopper-looking chick.

"Oh yeah?"

"She fuckin' fucks me, but she won't fuckin' blow me."

"Thanks for the overshare, bro."

"Nah, ah'm SERIOUS! She fuckin' doesn't want my cock in her mouth!" A couple of heads turn.

"Hey man, keep your voice down."

"Why doesn't she wanna blow me, Steve?"

"You ever eat hot dogs?"

"Yeah."

"Do you shove them down your throat whole?"

"No."

"Alright then."

He stares off into space as if pondering metaphysics.

"It probably makes her gag. Tell her to lick it like a popsicle."

"Good idea, Steve." He hugs me.

And you guys thought I wasn't getting any action tonight!

**********

Sunday, June 18, 2005

I worked around the house all day yesterday, and didn't even make an attempt to go out. But if I'm really serious about finding fuck buddies, I'd better get cracking.

I didn't call Tim this week, even though I said I would. I did it intentionally.

I'm sure every guy loses his cool around her, even normally suave guys who have it all together. I'm sure THEY all call her when they say they are going to. The way I see it, if 100 guys call her, and one does not, who is she going to remember?

I'm sure she's wise to what I'm doing, and she probably won't call me either. I'll call her next Thursday, but not a minute earlier. In the meantime I need to get some more prospects. But first, some chores.

Top Notch Drycleaner
11:15am

I'm doing my weekly pick-up and drop-off. There's a long line ahead of me, and only one person behind the counter. The customer is arguing loudly with him about a tie that's ripped.

A girl walks in and gets in line behind me. I glance at her and look away.

Wait a minute. Was she HOT?

I look back at her. Her short brown hair is tucked neatly under a red scarf. She's not wearing any makeup at all, but still manages to look cute, with her deep dimples and straight teeth. She's wearing a baggy T-shirt, so I can't say she's flat-chested, but she's definitely not big on top.

"Hi," I smile, as if she were an old friend.

"Hiyee!" she chirps. I'm getting an airhead vibe all of a sudden.

"....it was NOT that way when I brought it in here!" the customer is saying.

"Hope you're not in a hurry," I say with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes. "How long have they been arguing?"

"Five minutes, at least. Every time I come in here, it's something else. But they do good work."

"AWESOME work. I was about to throw away an old dress of mine because it had a stain, and just for the heck of it I brought it here, and they got it out!"

"Good deal!"

She glances down at the slacks and blazers draped over my arm. "Gettin' your suits cleaned, hah?"

No, I'm just holding them for the exercise, honey.

"Yep. How 'bout you?"

"I'm actually here to pick up a tablecloth. Believe it or not."

The customer storms out, pushing the door open so hard that it bangs against the outside wall of the store.

"Looks like he lost the argument," I say.

"Yeah," she laughs. "So, where do you work?"

We talk for another five minutes, until it's just about my turn. I'm sure as hell not going to stand around and wait for her while she picks up her tablecloth, so it's now or never.

Suddenly it occurs to me that this is how you do it, THIS is how you build a stable. You talk to every girl you see, not just in bars, but everywhere. You make your own luck. And I did that, without even thinking, and it's working!

"Hey," I say. "You wanna go for a drink Friday night?"

She stares at me. Ah, shit. I guess she's married.

"OK!" she exclaims.

"Ok, cool."

"This'll be fun!" she smiles. "I haven't been on a date in months!"

Troy, Troy again

Troy is doing better than I expected.

Actually, he's right where I hoped he'd be right now. He's not especially bright, but he's reliable, and very dedicated to his work. He's respectful to Dom and me, and constantly asks us questions and tells us about what he's learned.

I like teaching. It feels good to know that I have enough knowledge to actually help someone new. It feels like I've accomplished something in my own career.

Nonetheless, after several weeks of training, I am more convinced than ever that installing Troy as a DM would be a fucking disaster. He doesn't know nearly enough about the insurance business to run an office, not even a small one. He's too naive to deal with office politics, and we STILL have not seen how he reacts to a crisis.

But Dan Johnson's got it in his mind that his son is going to be a DM, and has somehow convinced himself that he can be trained on how to do the job, the way Dairy Queen employees are trained to make that little loop at the top of their ice cream cones.

It's lunacy. Training a DM from scratch is akin to training someone to be a head football coach with no prior experience: You can teach him how to use the headset, and how to send a play in to the quarterback, but how will he know which play to call? He has to LEARN that, and the only way to learn it is through experience.

Dan normally makes sensible decisions, but this is definitely not one of them. The only possible reason I can think of that he is pushing this so hard is that he wants to retire in a few years, and when he does, I think he wants Troy to take over for him. With some time as a DM under Troy's belt, Dan could go before the board of directors and brag about how his son has been groomed for the job.

Sure, the company would suffer with Troy running a division, but that's not why I oppose it. I don't LOVE my company. If it went belly-up tomorrow, I wouldn't bemoan the loss of a Great Organization Which Had Done So Much For The Community. The company is in the business of making money, plain and simple.

I love my job. I am fond of the people I work with. And of course, I like the money. If the company went out of business, I would mourn the loss of those things, but then I would go find another job and get on with my life.

No, my opposition to hiring Troy as a DM is much more selfish. I was never very keen on the idea of Troy running an office, but now that I am involved, and I've seen what he can and can't do, I'm more opposed to it than ever. He's going to fuck something up royally, and when he does, the problem might very well fall into my lap: "YOU trained him; didn't you cover this topic?" And just like that, my reputation takes a hit.

I'm also concerned that, now that I have taken Troy under my wing, he will believe he's got carte blanche to call me whenever he doesn't know what to do. I've barely got time to do my own job!

Dan is just like me: He loves to hear the words "It can't be done". Hearing that motivates him; it fills him with energy and steely resolve to find an answer. It gets the adrenaline pumping, and it moves the negative, uncreative people out of the way, so the work can be done.

If I were to call Dan and simply say that "Troy's not ready," he would respond with, "How do we GET him ready?" Phrasing it that way makes it seem too simple, and I would get a simple answer. What I need to do is give him the facts, and make him come to the desired conclusion on his own.

Friday, June 17, 2005, 11:00am
Steve's office

Troy has sat in with me for the first several hours of the day, as he always does. Before I turn him loose to his departmental training, I want to assess where we are.

"How's it going, Troy?"

"It's a lot to take in."

"Yes, it is. What's your favorite part so far?"

"Running the sales meetings."

I had a feeling he'd say this. The salespeople complimented him, which means he is just like they are: Smooth, glib, friendly, and very good at bullshitting.

Some years ago, a salesperson told me: "Salespeople aren't selling a product: They are selling attitude, enthusiasm, and confidence." I never forgot that. I think it's true: Really successful salespeople all have a way of acting like they're your best friend 30 seconds after they meet you. Yeah, I can see Troy fitting in with that group.

Troy's comment gives me an idea: I can have him focus on sales during his internship, maybe even go out on some sales calls, get a lot of experience in that area, and show how good he is at it. Then, I can go to Dan and suggest that Troy run the sales end of things for a while before getting promoted. It's not perfect, but at least it would buy time.

"So you like sales, huh?"

"Yeah, it's great. I like Ally better, though," he says with a sneer.

Ally is a case manager for our workers' comp division. She's maybe 24, with olive skin and dark eyes. Every guy in the office lusts after her. I suppose it's only right that Troy is with her, since just about every girl in the office thinks he is gorgeous.

"Bragging is bad form, though," I smile.

Unless, of course, you have an anonymous blog, in which case bragging is very cool.

"Let's go drinkin' tonight!" he says.

I DON'T recommend a singing telegram...

Wednesday, June 15, 2005, 7:22pm
Steve's house

I call Chris.

"Hello?"

"Hey bro!"

"Hey, Steve!"

"I just thought I'd call and find out how you're doing."

"I'm good, Steve."

"Did you talk to Janet?"

"It's ok, man."

"Good. Did you talk to her?"

"I just sat her down and told her that, you know, I was really hurting and I really.... missed her, and, you know, I didn't think I could take it much longer."

"Didn't you mention therapy?"

"Yeah. She FREAKED!"

"Freaked how?"

"She just got hysterical crying. She said she knows that I'm hurting, and she feels terrible. She said I have no idea how much it kills her that I'm unhappy, and she sees how unhappy I am, and she knows it's all her fault-"

"Mm-hmm."

"-and she says she hates herself and she feels like such a failure as a wife."

"Man."

"She says she's just bored and sad most of the time and she hardly ever feels happy anymore."

"So what did you say?"

"I told her she was depressed and she needs help, and I asked her if she would let me get her some help."

"And?"

"She said to give her a little more time, because she wants to try to work it out with just me and her."

"What does THAT mean?"

"She wants to try to get past it without doctors."

"Why? What's the big problem with doctors?"

"I dunno."

"You said she got a physical two months ago, right?"

"Yep."

"Did she freak before that?"

"Nope, she was fine."

"Ahh, so she's not afraid of doctors, just therapists."

"I guess."

"Well, I mean, that's great that she wants to work on it with you, but-"

"I know, I know. I'll keep working on her to go to therapy. She wants to go away this weekend. So we'll see how that goes."

"Let me know."

"I will."

"So what about the whole sex thing?"

"Oh. Well, later that night, she..."

"Had sex with you?"

"Yeah."

"Good sex? Or five minutes and 'get the hell off me'?"

"No, it was fine. Blowjob and everything!"

"No shit!"

"Yep."

"That musta felt good."

"It felt shitty. Almost couldn't get it up."

"Really? Guilty, huh?"

"Yeah. I think I have to tell her about Amanda."

...or, what's behind curtain number three!

Tuesday, June 7, 1:30pm
Steve's office

"Hello."

"Twinkie." It's Chris. His voice is heavy, as if he's just heard bad news.

"What's wrong, man? Don't tell me Janet found out!"

"She didn't. I did it just the way you said. She didn't ask, and I didn't tell."

"So what's wrong?"

"Everything."

"What's everything?"

"I don't know what I'm gonna do anymore, man." His voice is breaking.

"What do you mean?"

"She's such a fucking BITCH. I can't take this shit anymore."

"WHAT shit?"

"She doesn't.... she's not.... she won't............."

"What, she won't have sex with you?"

"Bingo."

"Oh shit, man. Hey, where are you?"

"I'm on my lunch break. I'm driving."

"Ahh. So, I mean, how long has it...."

"The last time was Christmas morning."

"WHAT!!!!???"

"Don't fucking rub it in, man."

I'm speechless. I expected to hear a month, maybe two. But this is fucking CRAZY!

"Well, maybe she's got something... wrong down there."

"She had a physical two months ago, no problems."

"Just out of curiosity, when was the last time before Christmas?"

"I started keeping a diary in July. I got it twice in July, once in September and once in October."

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

"I wish I was."

"Have you tried therapy?"

"She won't go. She freaks every time I mention it."

"And when you try to talk to her-"

"She just says she doesn't know what's wrong. She can't explain it, she has no idea why. She says she feels numb."

"Chris, man, I'm sorry."

He sighs. "Me too." There's a long pause.

I never liked Janet very much. I have no problem believing that she'd turn ice cold and padlock her snatch like this.

"I don't know what the hell to do, Steve."

"I'm gonna say something, and don't take this the wrong way."

"OK."

"Don't keep cheating. It's not you. It's not going to solve anything. I know why you did it, and I would have done it a HELL of a lot faster than you did. But I think you love her, and if you really want to make it work-"

"I DO love her."

"So give her an ultimatum: Therapy or divorce."

Steve's breakup: The album

Somehow, after endless questions about my breakup from everyone I know, I have totally avoided the subject of my... indiscretions, as well as any discussion of my blog. I'm going with the "We were fighting a lot" explanation, which is quite true. We fought all the time, mostly over trivial things, but those fights were not the reason for the breakup. Of course, the people asking me don't have to know that, however.

Most people don't believe me, anyway. They all know how well Steph and I got along, and they balk at the "We just weren't happy" argument. More than a few have asked accusingly if I've been unfaithful. Oh, and they are all sure to hit me with the "I thought you two were engaged" bit. Inexplicably, one woman I work with thought Steph and I had gotten married!

Sunday, June 5, 2005, 10:00pm
Steve's house

"You WHAT?"

"Paulie, don't break my fucking balls!"

"She was beautiful! She was PERFECT! She was smart, she had a good head on her shoulders..."

"Yeah, she was great."

"So why did you break up with her?"

"I didn't. SHE broke up with ME!"

"WHY?!"

Well, first I fucked some skank from corporate, then I fucked my sister-in-law's underage sister, then I kissed a sex-starved Jessica Simpson lookalike (and thumbed her tit), then Steph found my blog and dumped me. Girls can be so sensitive!

"Typical bullshit, man."

"What kinda bullshit?"

"You writin' a book?"

"You cheated on her, didn't you?"

Hmm, judgment call time. Does kissing count as cheating? How about tit-grabbing? And what if the tit-grabbing was purely accidental? Does it still count as a feel-up?

"I kissed another girl, but we didn't break up for that."

"You're a moron, Steve."

**********

"You're kidding, Steve!!"

"No, dad, I'm not kidding."

"What happened!?"

"We weren't getting along."

"DON'T gimme that! You were just in Hawaii with her! What do you MEAN, you weren't getting along?"

"Just what I said."

"Did you do something to hurt her?" he menaces.

"No, I-"

"Did you cheat on her?"

"No, dad!"

"If I find out you did something to hurt that nice girl..."

"Dad, remember your blood pressure."

"Goodbye, smart ass."

CLICK.

**********

Other assorted family and friend reactions:

Chris: "What happened?"

Greg: "What happened?"

Bonnie: "You're KIDDING!"

Heidi: "OH. MY. GOD. You're kidding! What happened!?"

Dom: "I wonder what took her so long."

Nancy: "Sorry, Steve."

Chris from accounting: "But you just went on vacation together!"
Yeah, cause we all know about that law banning post-vacation breakups.

Rod from marketing: "Turned down your proposal, huh?"

"What? NO!" I reply.

"So she accepted it?

God's obviously got a problem with me.

Paul [one of our VP's]: "Bitches."

Yeah, Paul's a little bitter.

**********

I wonder what is going to happen with Lila. I still haven't told her yet, and she hasn't called me in a while. This has happened before; she'll go for a week or more without calling, then drunk dial me ten times in 3 days.

I am very angry at her for the way she manipulated me. But of course, I played my share of head games with her, too. She went about it in an immature way, but she only did it because she cares about me. I wonder if she and I will have a future together, after all. Only time will tell.

Note to self: Buy clothespins

May 30, 2005, 8:00am
Steve's office
(Don't panic, I'm not falling behind)

Those of you who work in offices might be shocked at the amount of time it takes to get to your desk and get settled before any work gets done. Someday when you're not too busy, keep a notebook next to you all day, and write down every task you do, and how long each one takes. The wasted time will run into hours.

That's probably why I'm so obsessed with arriving at my office early in the morning. When the clock hits 8:30, I want to be busily at work on some critical project, not pouring coffee or waiting for Outlook to download my 36 new emails.

Today is no different. I climb the nine flights of stairs (elevators are for lazy people), and make the turn down the hallway toward my office. I'm no less than 20 feet from Bonnie's desk when I smell cologne. I get a little closer, and see that Troy is already sitting there, waiting for me.

He smiles brightly and pops out of his chair, rising to his full six-foot height. I extend my hand and he snatches it into his, pumping vigorously. "STEEEEEVE," he shouts, entirely too loudly. It's a primal growl, straight from the throat, the way fraternity brothers greet one another.

"Morning, Troy. Come on in. Let's sit down for a few minutes."

Troy takes a seat in front of my desk. He's wearing a black, pinstriped, crisply-pressed suit, and blindingly shiny wing tips that probably cost $500. His chest is puffed comically outward, like a singing bird; huge biceps bulge from beneath his Egyptian brushed cotton Oxford shirt.

His hair is blowdried straight back, so smooth and seamless that it might be carved out of wood, and as I take note of his angular chin, nose, and cheekbones, I know right away that, whatever problems this guy might have, getting laid is not among them.

Dom and I have discussed Troy's internship thoroughly. Since there is no way to stop it from happening, we are going to make the most of it; Troy will learn all about how this office works, and he will do it by handling as much of our busy work as humanly possible for the next eight weeks.

"Dom and I are looking forward to working with you, Troy. But I want you to remember that this is sort of uncharted territory for us. We've never had a.... boss's son to train before. We've had to design-"

"Steve, can I ask you a favor?"

"What's that?"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't talk about how Dan is my father. I don't want that to be the focus. Whatever I do here, I want to do it on my own."

I am instantly reminded of why we call him "George W". I recall reading an interview with one of Bush's ex-girlfriends from college, in which the girl said that Bush drove around in a old, beat-up car, even though his father could have bought him a new one. It appears that George didn't like the idea of getting handouts from his parents, and wanted to earn everything himself, you see.

But this chick didn't mention the fact that, when she dated him, Bush was attending Yale, possibly the most prestigious university in the world, even though neither his grades nor his performance on the SAT's warranted admission there. His father was a wealthy, influential alumnus, you see, who arranged it for him. Of course, this girlfriend, whoever she was, totally missed the larger irony, as did the magazine carrying the piece: That admission letter from New Haven, Connecticut was a bigger handout than most of us normal folks will ever get in our lives.

Troy's situation is much the same. He eschews association with his dad because he wants to do things himself. Of course, if he really wanted that, he wouldn't have taken this nepotism-laden training assignment, which will leapfrog him ahead of a dozen or so qualified candidates with years of service to the company, any of whom would do a better job than he would.

"Troy, let me give you some advice. That's what you're here for, right, to get advice from me and Dom?"

"Yeah..." He's leaning over in his seat, bouncing his knees up and down, like he wants to get up and run laps around the office.

I look down at his knees. "Too much caffeine?"

The knees stop.

"Troy, don't hide who you are. Don't announce it, but don't go out of your way to avoid it, either. Everyone knows who you are, and if they don't, they're gonna find out quick. If you act like you're just some kid off the street, you're not going to fool anyone. Just ignore it. Don't make it a big deal either way, and no one else will, either."

"I'm not sure I agree with you."

"Trust me."

Dom knocks on my door frame, then walks in and shakes Troy's hand. The smell of cologne is overwhelming now, a sickening mishmosh of competing manly scents.

I wave my hand in front of my nose. "Jesus! We've gotta be careful about all of us being in the same room!"

"Hope nobody lights a match," Dom says, smiling. We laugh.

"Troy, we're going to go over our plan for your training in a minute. But first, I want you to know how important these next two months are going to be for you. If you're really going to run one of our regions, even a small one, a great deal of responsibility is going to be in your hands. This is a great opportunity, but it's just like every other great opportunity: You can either be a hero, or you can fuck things up royally."

He nods.

I gesture towards Dom. "Dom and I, we've been in this business a long time, and we know that there is NO possible way that we can teach you all you need to know in two months. The best we can do is give you the tools you need to figure it out for yourself. It's not going to be easy. It might be impossible."

"I can do it."

"I'm glad you're confident. But if you start to feel like you're in over your head, SAY something. We're here to help you. And if you still don't feel comfortable when you leave here, say something then, too. You're what, 25 years old? There's plenty of time to run an office."

"Twenty-six."

"You're gonna be looked at under a microscope, by everyone, including people who are angry that you got the job before them. Once you become a DM, you better be sure you know exactly what you are doing."

"I will."

Dom and I exchange glances. I'm trying to give this cocky son of a bitch a reality check, and all I'm getting is macho bravado. Obviously, he's been watching too much Top Gun.

"Just remember this, Troy. For the next eight weeks, you work for HIM," I say, pointing to Dom, "and ME. You don't work for your father. You work for US. LISTEN to us, and TRUST us, and you'll be ok. Is that understood?"

"Yep."

There go the knees again.

....and a digital camera wouldn't hurt, either...

Monday, June 6 (continued)

"Amanda, by any chance is there anyone with you?"

"What?"

"Have you.... have you seen my brother Chris? Lately?"

Another long pause. She's going through the same thought process I did when Janet called me. I never call Amanda, didn't even have her number, in fact. She knows that if I've gone through all the hassle of finding her, and then asked for Chris, I must know that he's with her.

"Hello?" It's Chris's voice. What a relief.

"What the FUCK are you doing, man?!"

"Can we do this later, Steve?"

"NO! Janet's looking for you!"

"Shit! Did you.... what did you tell her? What did you say?"

"I covered for you. You're fine. Don't worry about it. She's looking for her migraine medicine."

"It's, uh, in the over-the-john cabinet, behind the-"

"I'M not calling her back!!"

"My cell phone is dead, Steve! What am I supposed to do, use Amanda's phone? We have caller ID!"

"I suppose Amanda's charger doesn't work with your phone."

His voice gets a little softer. "Can you try your charger on my phone?" I hear him say.

He exhales deeply. "How the hell am I gonna face her, Steve?"

"Did you and Amanda...."

"I'd rather not discuss it."

Holy shit. He fucked her!

"Chris, that's not you. That's not you AT ALL. Did something happen? With Janet?"

"A lot happened. How am I gonna go home? I'm afraid I won't even be able to look her in the eye."

"Is Amanda in the room with you?"

"No, she went to go get the charger."

"Chris, you can do this. Trust me."

"What do I say?"

"First of all, if you're gonna make up a story involving me, it would be nice if you TOLD me about it!"

"I thought about it, but she never calls me when I'm out. And if I told you, I'd have to tell you-"

"Who you were really gonna be with."

"Yeah."

"You can trust me. Next time, TELL me."

"OK."

"Now, you told her you were coming to my house. Right?"

"Right."

"Why?"

"I told her you were... feeling bad about your breakup and you needed some company."

"Alright. Now, when she called, I had no idea what your story was. And she was asking to speak to you, so I gave her the excuse that you stepped out for five minutes. Where should we say you were going?"

I really hate making up lies. It means everyone involved has to remember complicated details, and one slip-up will expose everything. I'm petrified that Chris is going to forget something. The best way to handle it is to let HIM come up with the story; if it's his idea, he'll remember it better.

"Say I was going to the store to get some Mountain Dew. I always drink that, and you never have soda in your house."

"That is fucking PERFECT, man."

"OK," he says weakly.

"Say you had dinner here, too. What did we have," I ask.

"Lasagna, your favorite. To make you feel better."

Boy, this guy is good. Better than I thought he would be.

"Now listen. Don't volunteer ANYTHING. It's 'Hi, honey, how are you?' Whatever you do, do NOT give her ANY information unless she asks. There's an old expression: 'Words are silver, silence is gold'. You got it?"

"Yeah."

"The less you say, the better."

"I GOT it, Steve."

"Do me a favor: Call me when you're leaving. This way, if she calls back, I can tell her you're on the way, and I'll know when you left."

"Bad news. The charger doesn't work."

"Fine, I'll call Janet back and patch you in so you can talk to her. And one more thing, Chris."

"What?"

"How was she?"

"Fuck you, man."

Getting some major (Under)wood

sCARRIE hot

Maybe it's the dreamy, chocolate brown eyes. Or the sexy, cascading blonde hair. Or the way she's wearing her shirt wide open, leaving us Idol-worshippers to dream longingly of what's below the bottom frame of the picture.

Maybe it's the way she belts out a song, managing to sound powerful yet sexy at the same time. Because yes, this girl can SING.

Whatever it is, I am wanting her in a MAJOR way right now.

The case of the missing asshole

My brother Chris is nothing like me.

As long as I can remember, he has been steadfastly monogamous. He's always loved being a one-woman man.

He had a very serious girlfriend in high school, and on the weekends, while other kids their age were drinking and partying, they were out looking at furniture. They were both 16 the first time I heard them discuss marriage, and I thought they were crazy.

Jackie and Chris went to different colleges, and she ended up dumping him in the middle of freshman year. She came home for Christmas a few weeks later, and we started hearing rumors that she was dating some other guy. Chris was devastated for a very long time, and still doesn't like to talk about her.

When he was not with anyone, he was very slow and methodical about growing his relationships. He tended to them carefully, like wounded birds. Sometimes the bird died; sometimes it grew up and became beautiful.

He was always very happy with his girlfriends, and very loyal. But, to be truthful, I've never liked any of them.

It's amazing how similar Chris's girlfriends have all been. They tend to be tall, intelligent, and well-spoken. They also happen to be cold, snotty, emotionally unavailable bitches. He loves stuck-up chicks, and always has.

Janet is no exception. I remember years ago, when I was jogging on a hot summer day, and I had underestimated just how sweltering it was. After a mile, I gave up, and started walking slowly back to my dad's house (where I lived at the time), huffing and puffing to get my wind back, my hands on my head.

Janet pulled up alongside me in her air-conditioned Jetta to say hello. She was on her way to see Chris at my dad's house. "I'd give you a ride," she said, "but you're all sweaty." I never forget shit like that.

She and Chris have been married for almost 10 years. They have always seemed genuinely happy. They still sit ass-to-ass on the couch, and she still dozes off with her head on his shoulder late on a holiday night when we're all at dad's. Thing is, she and I have never truly hit it off. I don't like talking to her; it feels... forced somehow, like neither of us wants to be there.

When the family is together, I can predict almost exactly what she'll talk to me about:

1. How's my job;
2. How's [insert girlfriend's name here]; and,
3. Terribly [nasty/beautiful] weather we're having.

After those topics are exhausted, we stand around, rocking back and forth on our heels, waiting for someone to save our asses from the boredom. Sometimes I try to go outside the box, talking about a great movie I saw, or an old friend I ran into, and she just kind of stares at me, as if to say, "We're not supposed to be talking about THAT!" Even Nancy, my other sister-in-law, who is prone to bitchiness in her own right, comments all the time about how hard Janet is to talk to.

I've only seen Chris and Janet once or twice this year, and the last time was on Easter Sunday. Things seemed different between them. He talked to Amanda all day, as I remember, and Janet didn't appear to notice. Each of them acted as if they had come alone.

Monday, June 6, 2005, 7:00pm
Steve's house

My home phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Steve, it's Janet. I need to talk to Chris," she says sharply.

What the hell is she talking about? Chris isn't here! Chris NEVER comes here, except on special occasions. They don't exactly live around the corner from me; in fact, we're not even in the same state.

Chris isn't here! I almost exclaim, and at the very last second I stop myself.

Chris must have told her he was coming here. He MUST have, because I can count on one hand the number of times Janet has called this house. She would never do so randomly.

But I haven't talked to Chris in a week or two, which isn't unusual, so if he told her he was visiting me, he must have been lying. And if he's lying, he must be doing something he doesn't want her to know about. But why didn't he fill me in on his little plot?

".....STEVE!" she shouts. I pull the phone away from my ear for a second so as not to go deaf.

I better be very careful what I say. I have no idea what he told her he was coming over here for. The less information I give her, the better.

"Janet. I'm on the other line long distance. Lemme call you right back." Hopefully, I can hang up with her and get Chris on the phone so we can get our stories straight.

"Steve, I NEED to talk to him. He brought my migraine medicine home from the drug store, and I don't know where he put it, and my head is KILLING me!"

NOW what? I'm gonna have to tell her something. Chris is a real idiot for not telling me what he was doing. He's going to get an earful from me when I get hold of him.

I think of telling her Chris isn't here yet. But I have no idea when he left. Better play it safe.

"He stepped out for five minutes. Did you try his cell?"

"I did. No answer. Where did he go?"

"OK, I'll get him to call you. Migraine medicine, right?"

"Right."

"I'm on it. I'll have him call you right away."

"OK-"

CLICK.

I dial Chris's cell number.

"Hi, sorry I can't get to the phone right now, but if you'll-"

DAMMIT.

I plop down on the couch. NOW what the fuck do I do? Janet needs an answer quick, and will get suspicious if she doesn't get one.

Maybe I can call whoever he's with. But who IS he with?

Then it hits me. It's obvious! If he's cheating on his snotty, bitchy wife, it must be with another snotty, bitchy woman. And when I saw them together, their body language seemed to give them away; I swore they were fucking. Maybe I was right after all. I hope I am. It's my only chance.

I call dad.

"Yeeeel-lo!"

"Dad!"

"Hiya, Steve."

"Dad, I need Amanda's cell phone number."

"Amanda who?"

"Your girlfriend's daughter, dad!"

"Oohhhhh, DAT Amanda."

"Yeah, dad."

"Well, I don't have that. Call Anna, she'll give it to you. Here's the number."

I write it down. "Thanks, dad, talk to you later."

I call Anna. "Hello?"

"Anna, it's Steve. Frank's son."

"Steve, hi!"

"Hi. Listen, by any chance do you have Amanda's cell phone number?"

She hesitates. "Yeeeess..."

Time to make up a little story. "She's helping me get my house appraised, and I was supposed to get some information to her a week ago..."

"Ohh, ok." she gives me the number.

I dial it. Please, please fucking answer!

One ring. Two rings. "Hello?" says a haughty-sounding female voice.

"Amanda."

"Yes?" There is concern in her voice.

"It's Steve. Frank's son."

There's a long pause. "Hi, Steve."

"Amanda, by any chance is there anyone with you?"

41 bottles of beer pieces of ass on the wall...

Saturday, June 11, 12:30am
Tim's house

We drain our glasses, and we are staring at each other. She looks my face up and down with her big, round, denim-blue eyes. Her skin is creamy and flawless, her teeth a brilliant, sparkling white. Blonde hair tumbles down well past her shoulders, partially covering the "C26" on her t-shirt.

The room falls silent, save for the ticking clock on the wall and the low hum of her refrigerator.

"You were thinking about me all day, weren't you," she whispers. She's a foot and a half away from me, and I can barely hear her. "You were thinking about my lips."

"Um, yeah. Those too."

She chuckles softly, then closes her eyes and opens them, slowly. "You were, weren't you?" she says with a little smile.

"Mm-hmm. Yeah, I was. And you were thinking about me too, weren't you? After I called you?"

"Mmm, I don't remember," she says with a sly smile.

"Uh huh," I say.

She leans in as if to kiss me, then stops. I close my eyes and press my lips to hers. I get even stiffer as our lips meet; I am painfully, agonizingly hard, aching to be inside her.

Her lips are soft and inviting; this is not an urgent kiss, like last time: It's a slow, languid, beautiful kiss, a lovers' kiss.

"Why are we in the kitchen?" Tim says, pulling away from me.

"Good question."

I follow her through the living room and into the bedroom. Glancing quickly around, I can immediately tell that she is either rich, or is getting money from someone who is. There are fancy knick-knacks and expensive furniture everywhere.

She pushes her bedroom door part of the way closed; I have no idea why. She turns and kisses me, more urgently now, and the moist, hot sound of our lips is amplified against the black silence in the room.

"You want me, don't you?"

"Yeah," I breathe.

"What do you want to do to me? Tell me!"

"I wanna fuck your brains out, Tim."

"Mmmmm."

"I want to suck your tits, and then I wanna shove my hard cock into you."

"MMMMMMM!" she says, kissing me again.

"You gonna let me suck your cock first?"

Clothes come off with desperate speed. Her tits are magnificent, full and ripe, with small, tight, dark nipples. I grab one, softly, gently, and feel it's heavy heft in my hand.

Her bellybutton is pierced with a tiny chain; her stomach is flat and smooth.

I sit on her bed, my cock ramrod stiff. She kneels on the floor, staring up at me. She moves in slowly, taking my entire scrotum into her mouth, then releases it gently, and runs her tongue up the bottom of my shaft. She takes the head into her mouth, briefly, coating it with warm spit, then runs her tongue back down the top side, a part of the penis that many women forget.

I feel the pressure build, the heat, the low rumble of pleasure as she wraps her lips around it, bobbing her head silently up and down. I need her pussy so fucking bad that I can't stand it.

I push her gently away and she knows it's time. She lowers her jeans and her little white panties. Her bush is neatly trimmed, a flawless triangle.

My stomach rises and falls as I rummage my pockets for a condom and put it on. My heart races. I stand over her; she's half-laying down, half sitting, her shoulder blades against the headboard.

I feel the intense head rush of penetrating someone new for the very first time as I enter her. Her pussy is tight and smooth, much tighter than I would have expected, with as much as she's been around.

Tim has a very girly, high pitched, Ah! Ah! Ah! moan; it's so incredibly sexy that the first time I hear it, I almost blow my load.

I like this angle very much; I can really get a lot of leverage as I pound away at her. I look down and see my dick going in and out, and it's all I can do to keep from coming.

I pull out of her and tug on her hip so that she flips over. Her ass is every bit as gorgeous as it looks through her jeans; round and plump, like a piece of fruit you want to take a bite out of. I love the way her thin waist gives way to the curves of her hips and butt, and how her labia open to me as she lifts her ass in the air. "Squeeze my tits," she says, and I lean over and grab them as the fucking intensifies.

Then she pulls away and mounts me, her hips sliding front to back, slowly at first, her shapely thighs gripping tightly against my body, her beautiful breasts heaving up and down. She builds up speed, slowly, all the while moaning her Ah-Ah-Ah moan.

Suddenly it occurs to me that the bed is creaking and groaning in time with her thrusts, and she's grabbed my hands, her fingers interlocked with mine, her nails piercing my flesh. I am so dizzy with pleasure I can barely think.

She slows down a bit, and I sit up, our faces almost touching. It's hard fucking this way, but I like it. I want to blow a load on her, but there's no way I can stop long enough to pull out and remove the condom.

I start to come, but instead of a gush, I feel a trickle, and I know right away this is a double orgasm.

I push her down onto the bed and fuck her with long, slow strokes, until the climax overtakes me and I can actually feel the condom filling up, and my body trembling uncontrollably as I come.

We lie there in silence for a long time, staring at each other.

It's no wonder Dom is having such a hard time letting her go.

**********

3:17am

I must have dozed off. I'm still in Tim's bed; we're both still naked.

I stand up and pull my boxers on.

"Where ya goin'?" she says, in a froggy, middle-of-the-night voice.

"I gotta get up early tomorrow."

She props herself up on her elbow, her blonde hair cascading down over her arm. "Thank you for the champagne, honey. You're so sweet!"

"Anytime."

"Call me during the week, ok?"

"Sure."

I leave, knowing that whatever shit I get from Dom will be worth it.

With apologies to Mr. Perignon

Saturday, June 11, 2005, 12:00am
Steve's house (continued)

"Can you meet me in my house in half an hour?"

"Sure."

"Make sure no one's in the driveway."

I'm glad she called when she did; when I'm whacking off, it's an extremely quick process, and in about 4-5 minutes, she would have been too late. Sure, I can usually come twice in a row, but the first time I fuck a girl, I like to make a big, um, splash. I like to blow a huge load all over a chick's face and have her say something like, "My God! Where do you KEEP all that stuff?" I don't know about the rest of you guys, but my second load is never as big as the first.

Jerking off is all business for me; I ain't looking to romance myself, after all. I know just where to grab, how fast to rub, when to speed up, when to slow down, and when to stop. I'm GOOD at it! It's a shame that masturbation is not an Olympic event, because if it were, I'd have more hardware than Bob Vila.

Now that I know how fuck-ready Tim appears to be, it's time to put away my gun. I gingerly raise my boxers and slowly zip my fly; my cock remains at full attention, stretching my underwear and poking out under my jeans. Forget pitching a tent: I've got a teepee big enough to fit the entire Sioux Nation.

I guess it might seem flattering for a guy to arrive at a girl's house 27 seconds after she calls him for sex. Me, I always take my time. My goal is to make it look like I do this kind of shit every day. I don't run to the car; I walk. I stop at stop signs. And I make sure I'm not out of breath when she answers the door. It matters.

I wouldn't be a very gracious guest, would I, if I didn't bring something. I look briefly at my wine rack, but nothing is cold, and nothing strikes my fancy anyway. I'm not a huge wine fan to begin with, and besides, I've always thought champagne went much better with sex.

There are always two bottles of Moet White Star in my fridge. Guys, you ought to do the same; You never know when you'll need one, and you'll look like a true stud when you have one chilled and ready at a second's notice. I grab a bottle and head out the door.

My mind swirls with memories of what it felt like to have Tim's silky smooth lips against mine. I think of her full-body hugs, with so much genital-to-genital contact that it feels like fucking with clothes on. And yeah, I think about Dom. And Stephanie.

It's easy to feel like I'm betraying a friend, but Tim made her choice, and her choice wasn't Dom. Tim is pretty much the female version of Dom and me, and in a month it'll probably be some other guy, so I might as well get with her while I can. Besides, Dom doesn't look at her as much more than a life support system for a pussy.

I do feel a twinge of sadness, though, as I realize that this is really It for Steph and me. Tonight I am going to have sex with someone else, and what Steph and I had will be truly Over. Just like that, I'll be back to my old ways. I know that I'm never going to have love or companionship with Tim, and I may not have it again for a while.

But what else am I supposed to do? Chase after Steph? Stalk her? She's made up her mind, and I'd better go on living my life, because she's gone on living hers.

Tim lives in an attractive mint green townhouse on a busy street. She's even got a driveway and a one-car garage. I walk slowly up her cobblestone steps and ring the bell.

She answers the door, wearing exactly what she had on before. "Hey, handsome!" she gushes, as if surprised to see me. "You wanta beer? OH! What's that?" she asks, looking at the bottle in my hand.

"I always come prepared."

"Let me see. Ooooo! How did you know I love Moet?!"

"I'm a good guesser."

"Can we open it?"

"No, I thought we'd just read the label together!"

"HA HA," she sneers, giving me a hand towel.

She places two water glasses on the kitchen table. "Sorry, no champagne glasses."

"No problem."

"So I told Dom what you had to say about seeing the workers' comp policy. And he proceeded to talk to me about insurance for an hour and a half!"

"No kidding?"

"I almost went into a coma!"

"That bad, huh?"

"And YOU'RE not very good at taking a hint."

"What do you mean?"

"I kept waiting for you to leave, so I could..."

"So you could call me?"

"Right. I kept talking to Dom so you'd leave, so I could leave!"

"Well, I did leave, it just took a while," I say. I twist the cork; it POPS loudly, releasing a tiny cloud of champagne vapor. I fill the glasses.

Moet goes down extremely smooth. It does have a hint of a bite to it, though, which reminds you that drinking enough of it will get you smashed.

"So what are we drinking to?" she says.

TakTakTakTakTak!

She looks to the front door, then to me, her brow furrowed inquisitively. I shrug. It's the knock of someone angry, or in a big hurry.

She leans past me and looks through the kitchen window at her front porch. "Oh shit! It's Dom!" she whispers.

"Really?"

"Do you think you should... hide or something?"

"Tim. My car's in the driveway."

"Oh yeah."

"Just let him in. By now he knows what's going on anyway."

"Yeah, that's true."

I hear her turn the doorknob and pull the door open. It squeaks faintly. It needs some oil, I think.

I hear Dom's voice, smooth and low-key, just like always: "Here's your ID that I was holding."

"Oh yeah, I totally forgot. Thanks, Dom," she says, with a nervous chuckle.

"Have a good night."

I peek out the window, and he's walking back to his car. Is that IT?

I guess Dom can't be surprised. Tim isn't his girlfriend, so he can't be shocked that she's with someone else. But he must feel betrayed that it was me, and that she and I are together on a night when HE was supposed to be with her. But I'll deal with that later.

She strides slowly back to the kitchen, her license between her thumb and forefinger. She stares at me, open-mouthed.

We burst out laughing. "OH my God! Can you believe what just happened?" she says.

"Nope."

"He just acted totally normal! Like everything was fine!"

"That's Dom."

"I guess he knows I'm not sick now."

"Good thing he's not the monogamous type."

She hands me my glass. "So?"

"To non-monogamy."

"Amen!"

Computer broken again?!

Friday, June 10, 2005, 10:30am
Steve's office

I have known a few headhunters (or, as they like to be called, executive search consultants) over the years. Their M.O. is always the same: They try to move qualified candidates from their current jobs to better ones. Their philosophy, and it's not always correct, is that any employee worth recruiting will already be employed, because he will have made it his business to find a good job.

Relationships work very similarly. In my experience, a guy who is already with someone is much more attractive to women than a guy who is not. Girls like a guy who is capable of commitment.

But more than that, guys who are getting some on a regular basis are generally a lot easier to be around than ones who are not. In fact, some guys, especially younger ones, don't need much else besides pussy to survive. So if they are fucking 3 or 4 times a week, they achieve a Zen-like state of Nirvana that Buddha himself would envy.

When we guys are getting laid, the world is beautiful. We get the urge to help stranded motorists and give spare change to panhandlers and tackle household projects we've been ignoring. There's no problem we can't solve, and yes, that confidence is sexy to women. The trick is to keep that going when you are alone.

That's one of the reasons I didn't call Tim during the week. If I asked her out on Tuesday, for example, and it happened to come up in conversation that Steph and I split up just a few days earlier, I might look horny and desperate. Calling as an oh, by the way on Friday would look less so, if done properly.

Sure, she'll probably have plans. If there is a girl that gets asked out constantly, it's Tim. But at least this will let her know I am thinking of her, and will hopefully make her think about me too. Next week, I can call with a little more notice.

"Hello?"

Her voice is high and girly, like Lila's. In fact, for a scary moment, I think I dialed the wrong number and got Lila instead of Tim.

"Hey, Tim!"

"Hi. OH! Hi, Steve! I didn't recognize your voice!"

"Has it been that long?"

"Yes! I miss you, sweetie!"

"Me too! So how's the party planning business?" Tim works as an event coordinator for a local supermarket.

"OK. But I started my own company!"

"You did?"

"Yeah! I do all the work planning these parties, and the store gets all the money, so I decided to just start doing it on my own."

"That's awesome, Tim! Hey, did you get a workers' comp policy?"

"Yeah, this lady at the Chamber of Commerce is helping me."

"You should let me take a look at the policy when you get it."

"Oh. Yeah, that's right, you're in the insurance business! I didn't even think to ask you!"

"There's a couple of other things you need to be aware of with a new company. We ought to sit down at some point."

Now is my in. I knew if I talked to her long enough, I'd find one. "Hey! You wanna get a drink tonight?"

She snaps her tongue loudly. "Aww, I'm going out with Dom tonight."

I'm speechless. Dom is still WITH her? She must be an otherworldly fuck. And she must also not care about his mission to have intercourse with every blonde (and fake blonde) within a 1,000 mile radius of his pecker.

"Well, I know it's last minute, so-"

"We're only going to Doc O'Malley's. Stop by and say hello!"

"I'll do that."

I hate being a cock-blocker. I'm filled with frustration when I'm trying to talk to a girl, and some jackass keeps butting in to the conversation, in an attempt to either get her for himself, or at least to prevent me from doing so. Whenever I find myself as the second guy approaching a girl, I bail. Dom didn't mind last time when I talked to her all night, though. Still, I don't think I'll show.

I call Paulie to see if he wants to hang out. It seems his girlfriend's car broke down, so she borrowed his to go out with her girlfriends (coughPUSSYWHIPPED!cough). Then I call my brother Greg; his daughter has a double ear infection and hasn't been sleeping, and he and Nancy are exhausted.

My brother Chris is almost definitely busy tonight, but that's a different story for a different day.

10:30pm.

What the hell? I'll run down to Doc's. It might be nice to see what Tim is wearing.

She doesn't disappoint. Dark blue jeans, tight enough so I can see the delicious curves of her thighs, one crossed over the other. A white, short-sleeved babydoll shirt that says "C26" on the front (what, is there a Bingo game going on that no one told me about?), and immaculate plain white sneakers.

"Steeeve!" she says when she sees me, and runs over to give me a kiss. Dom shakes my hand; a bartender walks over and puts a vodka and tonic in front of me. Dom must have ordered it when he saw me walk in. "So how's it go-"

I turn to face them; they've already turned their backs and resumed their conversation.

Tim's not as effusive towards me as she was before. Maybe she's going to make me work for it this time. Or maybe she's pissed at the way I left her when she was all warmed up last time. Whatever it is, I'm not gonna fix it by sitting here, drinking and watching the two of them talk. I'll finish my drink and take off.

Dom walks to the bathroom. Tim turns and grabs my wrist. "So you broke up with your girlfriend, huh?" she smiles.

"Yeah. Didn't I mention that?"

"No," she says, smiling through narrowed eyes. She doesn't believe this act for a minute. She knows that I got dumped (gotta thank Dom for telling her, by the way), and that I am now looking to fuck her brains out on the rebound. And that I didn't tell her about the breakup so she wouldn't figure all this out.

"You ok?" she says, tilting her head down and looking up at me, her cleanly-plucked eyebrows arching skyward. I stare at her lips, coated in red lipstick, so thick that they practically cast a shadow on her chin.

"Fine," I smile.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I think she was totally bad for you."

"How?"

"You don't strike me as the monogamous type, for one thing. And she seemed a little uptight."

"What about you? Are you the monogamous type?" I smile.

"You don't care. You walked out on me. Right?" she laughs.

"It was complicated. It's not anymore."

"Oh REALLY." She stares at me.

Dom comes back from the rest room, and their conversation picks up again. At about 11:30, I say my goodbyes and leave.

12:00am
Steve's house

I surf to cumfiesta.com and find a video of some teenage hottie getting pounded. I whip out my shit and I'm fully erect.

I guess there are worse things in this world than choking the chicken. At least I'll get off. Next week, I'll call Tim again, or find someone else. I'll go out tomorrow night, too.

Buzzzzzzzz, goes my cell phone, sliding across the table with the vibration.

I let go of my rod and grab the phone. "Hello?"

"Steve, it's Tim," she whispers.

"Hey."

"Can you meet me at my house in half an hour?"