"Now then... what was next on my things to do list?"

Friday, May 26, 2006

It's hard working when I'm horny.

I cross my legs, and my slacks tighten against my cock, which reflexively stiffens. Some chick holds the receiver too close to her mouth while leaving me a voice mail, and her breathy coos send me to Oz. "Please call me back" might as well be "Please fuck me with your steely pork sword." The reaction is the same.

Being monogamous feels right for me, but it scares me, too. My body doesn't care if Tim is on her period. My balls don't ache less because she's working all weekend. There are certain times when I need to fuck, and it's sometimes hard making that happen.

11:45

I call Tim. "Hey," she says.

"Where are you?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Where are you?"

"I'm on 95, exit 12. What do you need?"

"You."

"I'm not far from your office."

"So come over!"

"Why?"

"You know why."

Yearlike moments pass, until finally my phone buzzes. "Steve, Tim is here," Bonnie says. "Should I send her in?"

That depends. How horny does she look?

"Sure."

Tim looks out of place in my office, with her navy blue, Ralph Lauren-logoed dress and black boots that don't quite match. She doesn't care that she clashes, nor do the three 20-something male employees who suddenly have urgent business in the general area outside my door.

"What?" she smiles, dropping her keys on my desk. But it's a silly question.

"Close my door."

As she turns the deadbolt, I go stiff. My ears ring. I wouldn't stop now, couldn't, even if the building were on fire. If a 747 were screaming towards my window, all I would do is try to come faster.

"I hope you don't expect me to get naked, Steve."

I'm already unzipping, pulling my pants down but not off, and she follows my lead, reaching under her short dress and sliding her panties down her thighs.

She straddles my legs, facing me, flipping her hair out of the way.

"Hope you...appreciate this...," she whispers, wiggling into position as her eyes roll back and her voice fades, giving way to the rhythmic squeak of my leather chair. I grow harder inside her, marveling at her tightness, wondering how she got so wet, so quickly.

She grabs the back of my chair and I pull her hips to me as the squeaking grows faster, more urgent. "Uhh," she moans. "Right there."

My phone rings. Let it.

She pulls back, slowly, staring at my face as I watch my wet cock slide out of her. She likes when I look.

I am fully out of her for a moment before she thrusts it hard back into her, kissing the side of my neck, then tickling with her tongue, then biting. I am overcome by all of it, the juicy sound of our sex, the squeaking chair, her hot mouth against my skin. I blast cum inside of her, pulling her tight against me, and the chair stops.

"Feel better now?" she asks.

You guys could learn a lot from Paige...

January 3, 2006, 9:27pm
Steve's house

The phone rings, and I jump, knocking over my water bottle.

Dad is gone. He must be. The paramedics didn't even seem to be in a rush, according to Greg. They didn't even turn the siren on. He must have been a lost cause.

It seems unfair. I know that we are all supposed to outlive our parents, but it wasn't so long ago that mom bit the dust, and she wasn't much of a mother to begin with. I hardly ever saw her, and when I did, she was loaded and dropping more F-bombs than Richard Pryor.

Dad is different. He was a great father. He was hardly home during the day, like mom, but that's because he was working 12-hour shifts at a hot, smelly garment factory so my brothers and I could buy our Sega Genesis and our Reebok Pumps.

My dad used to collect $40 from me every month for car insurance. I bitched at him all the time about it, about how unfair it was that I had to pay for my insurance when other kids my age did not.

I was packing my bags to go away to college for the first time when dad walked in and handed me a manilla envelope, grinning. "What's this?" I asked, and opened the envelope.

Inside was every dollar of insurance money I had given him.

For some reason, even after all these years, after everything that's happened, I just keep thinking back to that manilla envelope. He taught me the value of saving money, and he showed how much he loved me, all at the same time. That is what good fathers do.

My brothers and I deserve to have a father like ours around for a long time. He ought to be able to see all of us married, with families of our own, before he dies. It only seems fair, but I know it doesn't work that way.

"Please don't go over the bridge on the way to the hospital," Tim says.

"I have to, Tim. It's the fastest way there."

"Why don't you take Cold Spring Street?"

"That's five miles out of the way!"

"So what?"

"So he'll be dead by then," I snarl, recoiling at the sound of my own voice.

She stares straight ahead, chewing a fingernail.

"Why are you so afraid of bridges anyway?"

"I don't know! Stop asking me!"

"Does it have to do with--"

"No!"

"You'd never guess it was me who's under stress," I say. "It's my dad who's in the hospital, in case you've forgotten."

**********

10:14pm
Our Lady of Mercy Hospital, Intensive Care Unit family room

"Hi, gunkle Steve," Mackenzie says. She's up awfully late.

"Hi, honey."

"Gunkle! Look at my Polly Pocket," she says, waving a four-inch tall doll at me.

"That's nice, sweetie."

"Steve," Chris says, ominously, from the doorway, and with his shadowy face and dark jeans, he looks just like the Grim Reaper. I don't like the sound of his voice.

I hug him. "You okay?"

"No."

"Is he-- how is he?"

"He's stable for now. His kidneys shut down. His lungs are filled with fluid. He's also got some heart damage, evidently."

"What are his chances?"

"The doctor says if he wakes up to say goodbye we should consider it a victory."

Greg sobs softly.

"Gunkle, why is my daddy crying?"

**********

Sssssshhhhh-haaaaa.

I remember the sound from when mom was in the hospital. Dad has a thick grey tube shoved down his throat to help him breathe, just like she had. It's odd to think that, less than two years ago, dad stood next to us, strong and healthy as an ox, as we watched mom die. Now, we're watching him die, and he's every bit as weak and helpless as she was.

Sssssshhhhh-haaaaa.

"Dad?" I say.

Sssssshhhhh-haaaaa.

He looks old, with a frail neck and 2 days' worth of salt and pepper stubble. His skin is yellow and clammy.

"Dad, the doctors are taking care of you. You're going to be all right."

"He's got pneumonia," Greg says, to no one in particular.

They're hitting him with big-gun antibiotics, and pulling water out of his system as fast as they can, but progress is slow. Even so, seeing a nurse standing beside his bed with pages of notes, rushing from machine to machine, is comforting. She's helping him, and she hasn't given up hope.

"He's a sick man," the doctor says. "I don't want you to get your hopes up."

"What are the best case and worst case scenarios?" I ask.

"Best case? He gets up and walks out of here. Worst case--"

"He goes out with a toe tag?"

"Yes."

Tim is in the family room, watching Mackenzie. "I'll go relieve her so she can see your dad," Nancy says.

"She doesn't want to come in," Nancy says, two minutes later.

Tim hates hospitals. After being raped and stabbed, I guess I can't blame her, but I was hoping she'd come and see dad, just for a minute.

"You sure you don't want to come in?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Are you-- is this--"

"I'm fine, go be with your family."

"You're family, too."

"Thanks, hon," she says, rubbing my forearm. "I'm sorry, but I just can't. I was going to try, but--"

"I understand."

"I promise I'll keep you company when we get home, but I'm just gonna stay in here."

**********

January 5, 2006, 4:56pm

"Dad, it's time for us to go home now," I say. "We'll come back this weekend."

His right eye twitches.

"Dad?"

His eyes open.

"Dad! Dad! Guys, he woke up!"

Greg and Chris rush to the bed. "Follow my finger, dad," I say, and slowly move it from side to side. He stares straight ahead, one eye open wider than the other, like a stroke victim.

"He's heavily sedated," the nurse says. "Whenever we intubate, we sedate them, so they don't get agitated."

"But this is a good sign, right? Opening his eyes?" Greg asks.

"He's very sick," the nurse says.

It could be worse... his name could be T-Bag...

"Don't you and Tim ever fight?"

Everyone asks me that. Believe me, we do.

Tuesday, January 3, 2006, 7:07pm
Steve's house

Tim asks me a long, complicated question, and I answer with a grunted "Yeah", without looking up from my Excel spreadsheet.

"If you're too busy to talk, you could at least be considerate enough to tell me before I start explaining something," she says.

"Didn't know it was going to be a ten-minute speech," I reply, and she storms from the room with a frustrated growl.

"You're so rude sometimes. You really made me angry," she says, after calming down.

"I tell you how busy I am. You're worried about how much work I have all the time. But then when I try to do it, you fucking badger me."

"I'm not badgering you! I'm trying to ask you a question!"

"Can't you see I'm busy, Tim?"

"Stop working for five minutes! Take a goddamn break!"

"Why? So I can stay up until 2:05 this morning instead of 2:00?"

"No! So you can have a life!"

The phone rings.

"We're not done, Steve," she replies, flipping her eyes at me. It's the same look she used to give me when she was dating Dom--or, more accurately, fucking him. It is an "I want you, but are you sure can you handle this?" look. Is it disrespectful that my heart flutters at her Cover Girl eyes while she's trying to yell at me?

"Hello?"

"Steve. Steve?"

"Greg. Greg?" I say, mocking his frantic tone. It's always something with my little brother.

"Steve, Dad's sick. He's really sick," he says, in a quivering voice.

"You mean he's--"

"The ambulance is here. The paramedics are giving--they're doing CPR. Steve, they're doing CPR on Dad!"

"Greg, take a deep breath, okay buddy? It's going to be alright."

"Steve, what do I do? They can't revive him! He's not breathing!"

"Greg, calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down! He's dying!"

"Is Nancy there? Put her on the phone."

"Steve? Oh, Steve," she whimpers.

"Please tell me he's breathing."

"Oh, Steve."

Wow... I really held out on you fuckers, didn't I?

Marlene is turning out to be a great girlfriend. Graduate school is tough, and she understands when it's time for me to hang up and go study. Sometimes she leaves little notes under my windshield wiper while I'm in class, and I sit in the driver's seat, reading and smiling. She always signs them "Leenie", with a little heart next to her name; one day, instead of a heart, I see the word "love" in her loopy, girlish hand.

We sleep in the same bed a few times a week. We haven't had sex yet, but on more than one occasion I've awakened to find my bare crank in her hand. She tugs me off expertly now, staring longingly at my naked cock while she strokes it. She's definitely not shy about seeing it anymore.

"I want you to get tested for STD's," she says one night, as we sit in my car eating ice cream. "And if we have sex, I want you to wear a condom."

"Okay, Leenie, whatever you want," I say, and I am so hard that I have to shift positions in my seat. It's finally going to happen!

So much for her waiting until marriage.

I know now that I was stupid for fucking Brenda. I was stupid to listen to her, stupid to pay any attention to her whatsoever. Brenda is a typical cock-blocker, someone who hates to see others happy because she is miserable. I have no doubt that she had sex with me to ruin my relationship with Marlene.

But it didn't work, and that must piss her off. That must motivate her even more to screw things up, and now she's got a way to do it: All she has to do is utter three little words, "I fucked Steve," and I'd be done.

I don't feel guilty: If anything, I'm flattered that two girls who live together think enough of me to want to get naked for me. But how long can I count on Brenda to keep her yap shut? No matter how much fun Marlene and I have, the worry is never totally gone: That one mistake bubbles up from my subconscious, reminding me that, like a dormant virus, it can awaken at any time and devour me.

"I'm gonna tell Marlene," Brenda taunts drunkenly one night, her head lolling from side to side, as if it were a helium-filled balloon. "I'm gonna tell Leeeee-nie..."

"Gonna tell her what?" I ask, and she doesn't answer. Dumb question.

Monday, November 2, 1992, 1:41am
Steve and Paulie's apartment

"Tell me it isn't true," Marlene sobs over the phone.

"Tell you what isn't true?" I gasp, as my ears burn.

"Did you have sex with Brenda?"

I was a bad liar in those days. My stories were plausible enough, I guess, but I always hesitated one beat too long, or let my eyes drift off, betraying my guilt.

"I-, I-, Marlene, I--"

"Oh my God," she shrieks. "Oh my God!"

10:30am
University development office

It's funny how this office, which once glowed with romantic tension, now feels like the scene of a crime. It's quieter than usual, and the silence gives me time to think. More time than I want.

I return from the restroom to find a Krackel bar on my desk. It must have been the one she got in San Diego; she never did give it to me when she came back. I still have it to this very day.

I want to talk to her, to thank her for the candy, to apologize, to tell her that I was really starting to like her. But as she rushes awkwardly past my desk, I know we're never going to speak again.

We never did.

April, 2006
Steve and Tim's house

"Every girl has to get her heart broken at least once," Tim says. "You did her a favor!"

I wish I could agree.

Cramming for exams

I'm overrun with motivation--deep motivation, the kind that can only be inspired by shame.

I wasn't good enough to get my prudish girlfriend's clothes off. Her ex-boyfriend back at home, with his Billy Dee Williams moustache and backwards baseball cap, he got the job done. But not me. She made me fall for her, made me open up to her, and then went back to her dorm room and downloaded every morsel of information to her roommate like chemistry notes. I'd show Marlene, and I'd show her meddlesome roommate too.

"So what's your situation," I say to Brenda, with a sly smile.

She looks at me. She's wondering how I'm not affected by the whole thing, how I can smile after being eviscerated by my girlfriend.

"Why?" she smiles.

"Tell me." Being a nice guy didn't work; perhaps being a cold-hearted bastard would be more effective.

"I'm 20. I think I'm too old for you."

"You're funny when you're drunk."

I refill my cup, and the haze slowly returns. I lean in closer each time her voice softens, until our faces are almost touching.

"So, I'm gonna walk home now."

"Okay."

"It's dark out. And it's raining."

"Do you... want me to walk you home?" I ask, my heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

It's strange seeing the room from Brenda's bed. The posters and furniture are familiar, but different somehow. Maybe it's just the angle.

She's wearing striped panties. I have been eyeing them through her white capris all night; so was every other guy in the room. Seeing them in stark relief as she pulls her pants off is pure triumph.

"I can't do this very well," she whispers, as she lowers herself onto me, and the alcohol evaporates from my bloodstream instantly. There is no guilt anymore, no Marlene, no studying to do, nothing except this warm and willing female who happens to be fucking me.

And just fucking her is not enough. My manhood has been questioned, and I have something to prove. So I fuck faster and harder, like the crude, inexperienced kid I am. I'm not patient enough to try different positions, and even if I were, I don't have the stamina or the patience to hold out. But I do know enough to drink in every detail, to see the swatch of pink beneath the tuft of black hair, to watch her pussy stretch subtly as my cock enters her, to notice the jiggle of her breasts and to listen to the squishy sound of wet flesh against wet flesh.

The haze lifts intermittently, sometimes just long enough for me to feel a warm puff of breath against my neck, or the flicker of her tongue against mine. Headlights pass by, briefly illuminating us, and I watch like a bystander, surprised at the coldness of our sex, but turned on by the desperate strength with which she pins her knees against my hips.

"Cum. Cum, Steve," she is saying, as I grow harder and her insides grow wetter. I was too stupid to wear a condom, or even to ask if she was on the pill, and I unload an ocean inside her, oblivious to everything except my own euphoria.

**********

Monday, October 17, 1992

"Did you see Jose out there?"

"What? No! I don't talk to him anymore!"

"Yeah."

"I told you that already, Steve!"

"I know, Marlene."

"Why did you ask?"

"Did you... did you and Jose ever--"

"Steve, I'm a virgin! I told you that!!"

"No you didn't! You never used that word, 'virgin'."

"Fine," she says, moving her mouth exaggeratedly. "I'm a virgin! Happy now? Why are you so jealous lately?"

"I'm not jealous."

"Did you talk to any girls while I was away?" she smiles.

That depends. Does "can you get me a towel?" count as talking?

I'm beginning to think I made a huge mistake. How could I have been stupid enough to trust Brenda? I should have known she just wanted to stir up trouble.

I better hope she doesn't open her mouth. And that no one saw me entering or leaving her room that night.

I am still pissed at her for telling Brenda about the tit incident, but if I confront her, I'll have to admit I was talking to Brenda, which would lead to Marlene confronting Brenda, which might lead to Brenda telling Marlene about the creampie I left a few inches south of her appendix.

For once I'm going to be smart and keep my mouth shut.

**********

Friday, October 21, 1992, 7:30pm
Steve and Paulie's apartment

"What's the glans?" Marlene asks.

"It's the head of the penis."

"There's so much about that stuff I don't know."

This is a good sign. She's curious. If she's curious, she'll want to try things.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, supportively.

"Like, when a guy has an orgasm, that stuff comes out, right? Semen?"

"Right."

"But pee comes out of the same place. So why doesn't pee come out?"

"There's a little valve in there that closes when the man gets aroused."

"What if the valve doesn't work right?"

"Then you call Roto-rooter."

"Steve!"

11:30pm

The TV blares incoherently on the other side of the room. Marlene pulls her mouth off mine for a second to look down at the zipper of my Guess? jeans.

"How does it get hard?" she asks, running her fingers across my fly.

"Blood rushes to it."

"Is it getting hard now?'

"Uh-huh."

Her eyes flicker up at me, as if to ask my permission.

"It's okay," I say, popping open the button.

She's touching it over my BVD's. It doesn't matter. I go statue-hard in ten seconds.

"You can touch mine, if you want," she says, averting her eyes.

You have a dick? I guess that explains why Jose didn't fuck you.

Her panties are dainty, like you would find on a kid's doll. I pull them away and slip a finger into her, and my pulse races at the feel of her tight box.

This is no ordinary pussy. Even a novice like me knows that. It would hug my cock, tight and warm, like a homemade sweater. Sexual pleasure is new for her; I'll watch as she makes her first fuck-faces, losing all self-control, succumbing to me totally.

I don't bother pulling down my zipper. The rubbing takes care of that. The outline is clear beneath my white briefs now, and she rubs it ever more feverishly between her thumb and first two fingers.

The head pops out. "Ew! Put it back, put it back!"

I tuck it back in.

"It was...shiny. Why was it shiny?"

"That's when the skin on the head gets really tight. Like on a bald man's head!"

"Oh yeah," she says, rubbing again.

"You're making me slippery," she says, her voice sinking to a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah?"

"You make me slippery when you kiss me sometimes."

"Oh really?"

"And when you talk to me on the phone. I love your voice."

"Me too," I manage, but I'm only marginally aware of what she's saying.

She's wet now, wet enough to fuck, if she wanted me to. But I'm not going to push it.

And then she finds the right spot, and rubs it just the right away, and I am totally gone. My eyes close and I hear myself moan softly as the first dollop oozes out of me. Nothing happens for long moments, and she probably thinks it's over. But then I cum like only a 22-year-old can, blasting wave after wave in my shorts, soaking them from the inside out. She pulls away too late, and it smears her wrist.

"It's... gooey!" she smiles.

"You see what you do to me?"

I know a Krack when I taste one

Once Tim moved in, I knew it would only be a matter of time before she found something incriminating.

Oh sure, her stuff has been here for months, but when move-in day came, and she unpacked the copy paper boxes full of sweaters she never intended to wear, the trouble started.

"Honey?" she calls from the master bedroom.

As soon as I see the workboot box on the bed, I sit down. Some things can't be dismissed quickly, and this is one of them.

"Did you open it?"

"Was I not supposed to?"

"I don't have anything to hide, if that's what you mean. But it is personal."

"I'm sorry, hon," she says with a lilt of her head. "Curiosity got the best of me. I only peeked for a second."

"Uh-huh."

"It's a trophy box, right? You'd have sex with a girl and then put something of hers in there?"

"But you only peeked, right?" I smile.

"Can I ask you one question?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the big Krackel bar for?"

**********

Her name was Marlene. She was a new freshman; I was just starting grad school.

She was half Puerto Rican and half black, but she was far from the feisty Latina you're probably imagining. Everything amazed her; each new fact was an earth-shattering revelation; every joke was the funniest she had ever heard.

I didn't like her at first. She was naive, uninteresting; her face was pretty yet immature, overshadowed by her gleaming teeth and feathery hair. I was a 22-year-old big shot, remember, who had lost 50 pounds a year before. Girls noticed me now; I had gotten laid a few times, and I just knew that I was the studliest guy within a five-mile radius.

Friday, September 9, 1992, 11:00am
University development office

It is my desk, technically--Nancy, whose cubicle this is, is on a leave of absence--but I lack the balls to take down the fake flowers and Precious Moments figurines that adorn her workstation. I looked ridiculous sitting there, but at the time I didn't know better.

I was fortunate to get this job: It's a work-study, 12 hours a week of clerical drudgery which I enthusiastically perform, not because I love making copies, but because it pays 50% of my tuition.

"Ask him," Marlene's coworker says, in a stage whisper.

"Noo," Marlene giggles.

The office couldn't be quieter if there were a final exam going on. I hear their every word, clearly; do they not realize it?

"Just ask him!"

"Later, later!"

11:30

"Steve?" Marlene says, meekly, brushing the hair from her eyes.

"Hm?"

"Are you... do you... "

We stare at each other, and my stomach starts to churn. She must dig me; otherwise, why would she be so nervous?

But why me? What would an attractive college freshman want with me? And isn't she too pretty to be so shy?

I want to let her finish her sentence, but she wants me to help her. "Yeah?" I say.

More uncomfortable silence. "Do you want to come to a party at my sorority? I mean, a sorority I'm pledging?"

"Sure!"

"Okay! Thanks! So, that'll be fun!"

"Yeah, definitely, Marlene!"

She scoots away.

Two minutes later, I track her down in the copy room. "Marlene? About that party..."

"What? You can't go? Oh, that's okay--"

"You didn't tell me where it was. Or when!"

I never thought it could be so easy to see a dark-skinned girl blush.

**********

October 10, 1992
Kelvin Hall, room 310

"A Nestle's Crunch is the same thing as a Krackel," Marlene says.

"Sorry, but you're very wrong."

"People are so crazy! Like, they get all goofy about Coke and Pepsi and they don't even know the difference! I bet you couldn't tell the difference between Krackel and Nestle's Crunch!"

"Bet I can."

"You can't see, can you?" she asks, as she ties the silk scarf around my forehead. I like that it smells of her perfume.

"Which one is this?" she says, gently slipping a small piece of chocolate into my mouth, as if feeding a baby. The tip of her finger brushes my lip longingly, and for an eternal moment I forget about the candy.

"Crunch."

"Hmph. Okay, here comes another one." The finger again, slower this time, deeper into my mouth, and it flicks briefly against my tongue. She's doing it intentionally; she has to be!

"Crunch again," I say, softly, and my sex drive is completely out of control. She has to know; she has to hear it in my voice. She has to feel it too!

We've gotten close, Marlene and I. We talk on the phone until after midnight, and she pleads with me to take her for ice cream at 1:00am. She giggles at my jokes and pulls closer when I put my arm across the back of her waist.

I haven't nailed her yet. We've had wet, mushy, sloppy makeout sessions, but it's gone no farther. Tonight is going to be different. Blindfolds? Chocolate? It's straight out of a porn movie! This is her way of telling me that she's ready: All of the waiting is going to pay off tonight.

"Try this one," she whispers, and now there are two fingers in my mouth, and I close my lips on them as she slowly pulls them away. "You got my fingers," she coos, with a little laugh.

"Kiss me," I say, and her lips engulf mine instantly, as if she were only an inch away. It's true what they say about not being able to see; your other senses are heightened. The touch of her hot mouth revs me, and I grab her pert breast in my hand, squeezing softly.

"Hey! Hey," she shouts, pulling away from me. "What are you doing, Steve?"

"I... you..."

"Don't do that! Don't touch me like that! Ew!"

I pull the blindfold off. "What do you mean, 'ew', Marlene?"

"I told you I wasn't ready for that!"

"You said you weren't ready yet! That was a long time ago!"

Yeah, like almost long enough to microwave some popcorn!

"It was last week, Steve!"

"Well, I know, but I mean, the whole blindfold thing, and the chocolate..."

"You thought I... ew! You thought I wanted to do that?"

"You don't have to make me feel like a pervert, Marlene."

"I'm not having sex until I'm married. I hope you're okay with that, or else..."

We make up. She waits until I cool off, then sits on my lap, playing with my hair like she always does. "You're not a pervert," she says. "And I really really like you, but I know this is hard for you, and I'll understand if you want to break up."

I like her too. It's comforting to know that we can talk things out. She handled an emotionally charged issue with a lot of maturity, and that impressed me. I am proud of her! How can I break up with someone like her?

I should have, though.

**********

"I'm gonna bring you back a Krackel from San Diego," she says. "A huge one!"

"Promise?"

"I promise, baby boy."

"Thanks, baby girl."

Marlene is home for the long weekend, and I'm not planning on going out, but after studying to exhaustion, I walk through the dark and drizzle up the hill to the dorms, admiring the colored leaves on the shiny pavement.

I almost don't open the door to the building. I don't like any of those people, really, and I don't want to waste the whole night drinking. Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if I had just kept walking.

"Man! You need to relax," Marlene's roommate, Brenda, says. "You look like somebody died! You look like you died!"

"Thanks, Brenda."

She hands me a red plastic cup. "I better not see that empty," she says, wagging a finger.

Hours pass. Faces and conversations run together like cheap paint. I stop drinking and the haze clears a bit.

"...why are you dating a freshman, anyway?" Brenda asks.

"I like her! She's--"

"You're a grad student, right? You're 22, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

"She's 18, Steve! And this is none of my business, but she... never mind."

"What?"

"It's just that, you're so much older than she is, and she's making you look dumb."

"How is she making me look dumb?"

"I heard about the boob incident," she smiles, looking down at her beer.

I felt my face go pale. "You what?"

"You were blindfolded, she was feeding you chocolate, and you thought she wanted to have sex. So you squeezed her tit," she says, stifling a laugh.

"Oh, man, shit, I--"

"I'm just saying, I'd be pissed if someone said that about me. I mean, all you wanted was to have sex. She acted like you fucking raped her!"

"What?"

"Oh man, she was all in tears and shit."

"I swear, I didn't force her to do anything--"

"Oh, I know. Marlene is such a fucking baby sometimes."

You'll never catch me having a conversation anything like this today. No one tells me my business, even if they happen to be right. Being played by someone much younger than me is the most humiliating thing I can think of. I can handle being wrong, but not being manipulated.

"I know you like her and all, but there are some things you should know."

"Like what?"

"Like that whole virgin thing? She's not a virgin, you know. She was sleeping with her ex-boyfriend. The one in San Diego?" Marlene never did use the word "virgin"; I picked up on that.

So she was fucking Jose. Jose wasn't a pervert. Jose got to see her naked, got to spread those sweet little thighs apart and bury himself deep in her 18-year-old pussy.

Bitch.

What the hell was I doing wrong? Why was Jose getting all the action, while all I was getting was teased? What words did he say, how did he look at her? How did he touch her, how did he kiss her? How did he melt her defenses, make her fling aside her Banana Republic wardrobe and dive at his cock?

Fuck Marlene. I don't know Brenda from a hole in the wall, but I know she's telling the truth. How the hell would she know about the tit story, if Marlene wasn't blabbing? The two of them were probably sitting around, laughing. Laughing! At my expense!

The chocolate incident, the fight, the reconciliation, all of it seemed so private. It felt like we were the only two people in town that night; it never occurred to me to tell someone else about it. But obviously, Marlene felt differently. How could she betray me that way?

"Your cup is empty," Brenda says.

Dairy Products for Dummies

It amazes me how many people are unfamiliar with the term "butterface".

It refers, simply, to a girl who is sexy but ugly: everything is hot but-her-face.

There were plenty of nights I ended up jerking off because the girl who was talking to me at the party wasn't pretty enough. From time to time, especially when I was younger, I overlooked stringy hair or clownlike makeup and nailed the girl anyway, but I wasn't proud of it. As far as I was concerned, any guy who enjoyed such things, who targeted butterfaces intentionally, was a loser.

April 3, 2006, 9:03am

Marriott Hotel, conference room 1
Semi-annual leadership conference

I notice Gretchen immediately. Her eyes are too narrow, and her bangs obscure them anyway. Her mouth is crooked, and her bright pink lipstick accentuates the flaw; her glimmering cocktail party earrings are completely wrong for a business meeting.

Facewise, she has little to work with, and her style choices have made matters worse.

Then she stands up.

She has a wiry waist, like the thorax of an ant, giving way to a bouncy ass, and her breasts pop voluptuously from under her mohair sweater. Her body has somehow remained pristine, immune to her ugliness.

As I steal delicious five-second glances at her, I suddenly get it.

I have always wanted to be seen with attractive women; I felt I belonged with them. But as my taste for toys and status has mellowed, I see the appeal of the Gretchens of the world.

A relationship with a Gretchen would be an overdose of lust, a steady stream of hot nakedness. I wouldn't want to be seen publicly with her. I wouldn't want to feed her, keep her warm, or satisfy any other biological need; she would exist only to satisfy mine. I would fuck her mercilessly and I would want her to like it, but only because it would pride me to know that I had the power to make her scream. Her personal happiness would mean nothing; she would be a vehicle for my entertainment, a geisha or a concubine, living to please me.

9:02pm

I need to see if I could actually make this happen. Would I be able to seduce her? Would I overcome the desire to avert my eyes from her less-than-magazine-ad-ready mug?

I'm not going to bag her. But I'll go through the motions, and stop just short of the actual act, becuase I need to know I haven't lost it.

"Hey, Gretchen, how's it going?"

"Oh, hi... Steve," she says, reading my name tag.

Some chicks look better far away than close up, like a painting by Monet. Gretchen is the opposite. She impresses me, attracts me, even, with how she carries herself, her back straight, her chin held high.

Her confidence sells me. Yeah, if I were single, I'd fuck her.

"Did you end up getting the lobster bisque last night?"

And speaking of white creamy stuff...

"Oh, yeah, it was heavenly," she moans, with a skyward eye tilt. And then I listen to her speak, examining every word, waiting for an opening to extend the conversation, reading her eyes, gauging how aggressive I can be, how hard I can push, just like I used to do.

I joke about the tie the presenter was wearing and she smiles politely, her mouth bent like a flexed crossbow. Her mouth is her worst feature; at least when she sweeps her hair from her eyes, their deep blueness catches my attention.

She tells me that she is an agent in commercial lines. "How did you get invited here? You must have impressed someone," I say.

"Or pissed someone off," she retorts, grinning.

The conversation continues and I am drawn to her ever more desperately; I have gone from "I wouldn't mind fucking her" to "I want to lay her out on the nearest cocktail table right now". But where do I stop? How do I stop? Do I wait for her to hit the ladies room and just take off? Tell her about my girlfriend? Get her naked, mount her, then stop with my dick two centimeters away from her steaming gash and say, "Oh shit! I'm missing Prison Break!"?

"I'm going for a smoke," she says, holding up a pack of Marlboro Menthols.

I don't smoke, but it doesn't nauseate me, either. If I'm loaded, and someone offers me a butt, I'll take it. Especially if that someone is as fuckable as this hottie, if for no other reason than that I can watch her succulent rump as I follow her outside.

She turns to leave, and two guys trail her closely.

Fuck this. I don't care how hot she is. I don't chase anyone, especially someone I've already decided I'm not going to have sex with. I was looking for an easy out: maybe this is it.

"Steve? Steve!"

I turn to see Lisa, from our training department. She's attractive and all, but every time she's nearby, I have the urge to strangle the perkiness right out of her. I swear, they get these training chicks straight out of cheerleader camp.

"Hi, Lisa."

The hiball glass wobbles unsteadily in her hand, and her voice is too loud for the conversation. But I let her talk, smiling slyly at her bad jokes, nodding patiently as she draws one asinine conclusion after another.

This is how I used to do it, and the technique comes back to me easily, though I've been out of practice for months. I go after one, and if she doesn't work out, I find another. We've all gone to the store looking for a certain sweater, found that they didn't have it in stock, and left with something we liked just as much. Too many guys go after one girl, and when they strike out, they go home feeling sorry for themselves. Why? Not that I give a shit, of course, because losers like them make it easier for me.

She's not dumb, Lisa, just naive. She doesn't know enough to flirt subtlely, so she keeps joking about taking me up to her room and letting me eat oysters out of her navel. She's trying to be cute, and coquettish, but instead she's coming off as a huge slut.

This is what they call low-hanging fruit, easy money, taking candy from a baby. I've fucked a million Lisas in my life, conned each one of them into thinking that there was some kind of connection between us, that her moronic story about surfing in Australia interested me. I played them, all of them, got them to suck my cock, to tell me that they wanted my big fat dick inside of them, and I unceremoniously blasted their faces with white stuff, right between their saucered eyes. Welcome to the major leagues, honey, I'd think, and stifle a laugh.

Suddenly I hate Lisa. I detest her lack of common sense and self-respect. Is she an idiot? I can't be the only guy she's hit on this way. Surely a parade of men has marched in and out of her bedroom, each one of them sticking it to her good and then avoiding her like an IRS auditor. How many times is she going to get used before she wakes up? And am I the only one who finds it funny that this trainer, who gets paid to teach other employees, is apparently unable to learn herself?

"Good night, Lisa," I say, though she is in mid-sentence, and I head upstairs to call Tim.

Your eyes do not deceive you

Nice to know you guys are still checking in. Things have settled down, a little, so I will try and post a bit more often.

March 31, 2006, 8pm
Steve's house

"Hon?" says Tim.

"What?"

"Do you realize we're gonna be living together tomorrow?"

"Yeah, 'cause you don't live here already. All your shit is already here! Your move is basically going to be sending in an address change to the post office."

"I've slept home a few nights."

"Tim. I think you've slept home twice this year."

This is different, though. No matter how many nights in a row she sleeps here, she can always take off for home if something goes wrong. We have had a couple of bad screaming matches in which we both needed to cool off alone, and we managed to do so without leaving the house, but it's been nice knowing that her place was available if she needed it.

This move made sense, anyway. Financially, it's going to be huge for us to be able to rent out her condo; she can pay her mortgage and still have a lot of money left over each month, which we'll stash while we figure out what to do with it; we could buy a new van for her catering business, or a boat, or save it for--gulp--our kids' college.

Did I just say that?

Oh yeah, your boy Stevo is in a right proper state these days, folks. The other day, I caught myself saying "When we get married..." to Tim, as if it's not even a question anymore. I told her that we need to live together for a year before we can discuss marriage, but I think if I asked her tomorrow, she'd say yes. But don't go thinking I've totally lost my mischievous streak.

The phone.

"Can you give me a reference?" asks Vicky.

"A reference? For what?"

A doctor to remove your bunions? Someone to sandblast your brick walk? A nice porn site?

"A job! I'm interviewing with a new company. Can they call you?"

That would be an interesting call: "Yes, I would highly recommend hiring this chick. Have you looked at her mouth? I mean really looked at it? The way her lips form a dick-shaped hole when she puckers them? A dick fits in there perfectly, too, believe me."

"I'd be glad to, but you never actually worked for me--"

The other line rings.

"You gotta get me outta dis friggin' place," Dad says.

We moved Dad into an assisted living home after he was released from the hospital. We can all sleep easier knowing that doctors and nurses are nearby, but Dad has made a 100% recovery; in fact, he's healthier than he's been in a while, and he doesn't think he belongs there.

"What happened, Dad?"

"Dere's nothing but old geezers in here! My next door neighbor shit his pants at dinner! He shit his friggin' pants, Steve!"

"Take my advice: If the oatmeal looks brown tomorrow morning, don't eat it."

"I'm not kidding!"

"Dad, lemme call you back."

I click over and Vicky is gone. I call her.

"Hello?" says a male voice. Must be her husband.

"Hi, I'm looking for Vicky?"

"Who's this?" he growls.

"It's Steve."

"Steve who?"

"Caruso. I know her from--"

"Oh, Steve! How you doing?"

Great, just great. By the way, did your wife ever mention that I fucked her?

"Very well, thanks. How's married life treating you?"

"Super. I've got a great woman here, I'll tell you that."

You ain't kidding. Like, this one time? She let me fuck her up the ass. It took a while to get in there, but once I got it going, I pulled out, just like they do in the porno movies, and that sucker was wide open. It looked like the Holland Tunnel!

"Definitely."

"You know, I really appreciate you--"

I fucked your wife

"--giving her this recommendation--"

I fucked your wife

"It really means a lot to us--"

I fucked your wife I fucked your wife I fucked your wife ifuckedyourwifeifuckedyourwifeifuckedyourwifeifuckedyourwife

"You got it, man."

"She'll be here in just a minute. She just ran out to the car."

Remember when you were at that dental convention in Chicago? It just so happens that, at that exact same time, Vicky was deep throating me with that wet, cavernous mouth of hers. So while you were lecturing about Gingivitis to guys named Ira and David, there was an entirely different kind of oral care going on! Amazing how she suppresses that gag reflex, by the by.

"Here she is. Steve, take it easy, ok?"

I have to say, your wife has amazing tits. Small and hard--perkiness is not a bad thing! She'll never be an old battle axe with her boobs in her underwear. And you know what's funny? The way she wears that big cross around her neck. It used to bounce against her chest when I fucked her. It's nice to watch, but I'm guessing Jesus doesn't appreciate the visual.

"Hey Mike, it's good to talk to you."

"You too."

Before you go, we should probably talk about that popsicle thing. I know I'd be pissed if some guy fucked my chick with a popsicle. In fact, pretty much any dessert food being rammed up her snatch would piss me off, if it weren't being done by me.

Vicky comes back on the line. "What are you laughing at, Steve?"

"I just thought of an old joke."

"...oh, and did I mention that you have zits and I don't?"

I knew that if I kept blogging long enough, I'd eventually get some cool shit for free.

When Emily, a reader of mine, offered me free tickets to a concert, it excited me to realize that my online networking, or whatever it's called, had actually netted me something valuable.

Of course, I am still a few thousand miles behind Ari, who apparently is going to need her own post office if she gets any more gifts from readers. Then again, with the double D's she's packing, I'm sure she's never been a stranger to such innocent generosity.

"Tim, can you come to the concert with me?"

"Where did you get the tickets?"

"My, um, friend gave them to me."

"Who?"

"No one you know."

"Someone from work?"

"Nope. So can you come?"

"Gotta work Friday night."

For Tim, "work" means driving a 15-year-old van--complete with body rot and missing hubcaps--to some bar mitzvah or wedding reception, and serving food to drunk people for four hours, then collecting $300 or $400 for her trouble. If she's lucky, after she has paid for the food, paid her employees, and filled her gas-swilling mechanical dinosaur with fuel, she will return home after midnight with $1.38 in spare change, a headache, and an overwhelming urge to throw inanimate objects at me.

I keep telling Tim that she should take on corporate gigs; she could work during the day, for more money, and she could actually get steady work. She's working on it, but it's going slowly. Believe it or not, I can't even get her a job at my office, because we have a long-term agreement with someone else.

"Since when do you like the All-American Rejects anyway, Steve?"

"I like them!"

"Can you name three songs by them?"

"Dirty Little Secret! I have it on my iPod!"

"Mm-hm... name another one...and don't look it up online! That's cheating!"

"'11:11', 'Move Along', 'Swing Swing'," I say, quickly.

"Oh my God. You like them!"

"Is it so hard to believe that I like music that happens to be made by guys a little younger than me?"

"No."

"No?"

"Yes."

I call Lila. "You like AAR right?"

"I love them!"

"I got free tickets to the show. Good seats!"

"Who gave them to you?"

"Well, I--"

"His umfriend gave them to him," Tim yells.

"Tim is so funny," Lila laughs.

"Why don't you take Lila?" Tim asks.

"Maybe I'll ask Stephanie," I say. Tim scowls.

"Yeah, like Stephanie would really care about the All-American Rejects," Lila says.

"So you coming, Lila?"

"I already have tickets. I was going to go with Sophie, but I guess she can take her boyfriend or something. It sounds like your seats are better!"

**********

Friday, March 17, 7:30pm

Our seats are on the floor. Actually, we don't have seats at all; our tickets entitled us to pink wristbands that give us access to an open area on the floor where we can roam freely, like cattle. In between bands, we grab some food.

A 16-year-old boy approaches Lila and me as we eat our hot pretzels. "Dude," he says.

"Dude," I say back.

"Are you her father?" he asks, pointing to Lila.

"Am I her what?" I snap back.

"You're older!"

"She's my g-... she works for me."

"Nice catch," Lila smiles.

"Are you her boyfriend?" the kid says, wide-eyed.

No, but I used to be. I used to nail her good and hard. Nailed her five times in one day once. You do know what 'nailing' means, don't you, sonny?

"What can I do for you, my friend?"

"Well, how about if you give me your bracelet and I'll give you my ticket, so I can go down on the floor?"

"I doubt it."

"Come on. There's no way you like this music!"

"I think it's time for you to go now," I say.

I was not prepared for the raw energy of these bands. Sure, I saw Rush and Kiss back in the day, and I've seen Aerosmith four or five times. The last show I went to was Bon Jovi, about a year ago. But those dudes are all way older than me. Sure, the amplifiers are still loud, but they don't rock nearly as hard as they used to.

As soon as the All-American Rejects hit the stage, I realize they are no REO Speedwagon. Chris, the drummer, lays down fast beats, almost thrash- or punk-like at times; Tyson spits his lyrics rapid-fire, almost unintelligibly. And Nick flits wildly around the stage with his guitar throughout the entire set, as if someone had wound him up like a kid's toy and turned him loose just as the curtain went up.

People say Mick Jagger has youthful energy. That's bullshit. Mick Jagger has a lot of pep for his age, but he hasn't had this kind of fire inside him for 35 years. These guys, all of them, play and sing as if this is their last day on Earth. They're not thinking about how tired they'll be tomorrow, or the 10-hour bus ride that lay ahead of them; every molecule in their bodies is focused on right now.

When I was in school, I had friends like these guys, people who could scarf down 8,000 calories worth of pizza and Mountain Dew, and then burn 8,500. I could never decide if I should envy them, or take bets on when they were going to wind up in a box.

I remember 22. No matter what I do, my body will never be in that shape again, and I'll never be able to throw caution to the wind the way I used to. It's fun watching guys who aren't so jaded yet. It's also depressing.

Lila and I sing along with most every song. Two teenage girls make out in front of us the entire time--one heavy-set, with a shirt tight enough to show her muffin top, the other with nerd glasses, so stop whacking. Fall Out Boy follows with their own set, and then we head home.

"I'm seeing this guy Nate now," says Lila. "The four of us should get together. I love Tim. She's so cool!"

"She likes you too."

"G'night! Love ya," she says, and walks to her door as my ears ring.

The wind and the baby

New England winds can be harsh.

Sometimes, I mute the TV and listen to it, building from a low rumble, then unleashing its power like a speeding 18-wheeler, and my house creaks and groans in protest. It blows empty recycle bins hundreds of yards down the street, and rips away roofing tiles. Even when I'm driving at 60 MPH, it nudges my car east or west with its angry strength, and I wonder where its fury comes from.

Wednesday, March 1, 2006, 6:04pm
Steve's house

"We're having a baby," Chris shouts over the phone. "I'm gonna be a dad!"

I admire my older brother. Not because he cheated on his wife--though I wouldn't have minded nailing Amanda myself-- but because he confessed to Janet. He told her everything, even though he thought she would leave him. He couldn't live with the secret.

Janet forgave him, even took the blame. "I must have been such a failure as a wife," she said. You probably think that she let him off easy, but she didn't. She knows that Chris is a good man, that he would never do something like that unless he was tortured out of his mind.

So they went to therapy, and Janet was diagnosed with depression. She went on Prozac, and they had sex again. First it was bad sex, quick and tearful, as she learned to trust him again. Then it got hotter, and nastier, and pretty soon they were huddled off in a corner at every family function, her sitting on his lap, whispering in his ear, oblivious to all other conversation in the room.

The wind and the baby make my mind wander.

It was 1982, I think, and my brother Greg was about 8. We had a storm door that didn't close all the way unless you pulled it tight, and mom was always badgering us to make sure it was closed. "Slam that door," she'd yell.

It was a windy winter day, and mom had opened the front door to let the sun in. One of Greg's friends rode by on his bike. "Bob. Bob," he shouted, bursting through the storm door and rushing out to meet him.

He didn't push the door tight, and a gust of wind grabbed it, flinging it wide open with its cold, raw energy, easily snapping the flimsy chain that held it in place. The door smashed into the porch light, which cracked into pieces and fell to the bark mulch below.

Mom reacted instantly, sprinting out the door, grabbing Greg by the arm and dragging him back into the house.

Greg always tells me that I overreacted when it came to mom. He said she wasn't that bad. He wasn't saying it that day.

"You broke a $30 light! You broke it," she shreiked. Do you have $30 to replace that light? Do you?"

"I'm...I'm sorry--"

She cracked him across the mouth. The sound was far more frightening than the light breaking. She hit him again, squarely across the nose, and blood flowed. He turned to look at me in horror, and I recall thinking that it looked like he had a red beard.

Chris and I were just kids, not nearly brave enough to stand up to mom, so we just stood and stared, hoping she'd stop. Eventually she did.

Fifteen minutes after the beating, I saw him at the kitchen table, writing, and I figured he was telling mom how angry he was at her. So imagine my surprise when I saw him scotch taping a sign to the front door, sniffling, a thin trail of blood still oozing from his right nostril:

Family, please do not use this door, or make sure it is closed! Love, Greg

Now that Super Man Has Eaten Onions, My Very Elegant Mother Jane will Serve Up Nine Pizzas to ROY G. BIV

Da-dum.

I hear it every time a new message hits my inbox, which, lately, occurs at least 100 times a day. It's a sound I have come to hate.

I could mute my speakers, but it wouldn't matter. I hear it long after I turn my computer off, when I'm driving home with the radio blaring, or in the shower with water splashing loudly around me. It overrides everything, a psychological trump card that invades my every thought during the day, and then, after I manage to drift off to sleep, it makes me snap awake, my heart racing, my lungs screaming for air.

Da-dum.

It's not an unpleasant sound; it's rather musical, really, a friendly, melodic reminder that someone has sent me a message. But these are not emails that can be answered with a "yes", a "27", or a "Bismarck, North Dakota"; these are multi-layered, complex problems that require input from several people, lengthy brainstorming sessions, and pages of documentation.

Da-dum.

I've come to hate Ken Lay. Never mind the fact that he is (was) good friends with George Bush, the most incompetent man ever to stroll the White House rose garden, whose moral bankruptcy somehow manages to dwarf that of the treasury he oversees. No, my real issue with Mr. Lay is that, like an immature fifth grader, he has, through his own immoral behavior, made life miserable for the rest of us.

Enron lost billions, and it seems Mr. Lay knew nothing about it. It was those meanies at Arthur Anderson Consulting, you see, who sabotaged his company, completely on their own, and he had no idea what was going on until it was too late. In other words, his dog ate his homework.

We all know that's bullshit. While this sabotage was going on behind his back, Lay was selling tens of millions of dollars worth of Enron stock, while advising his employees to hold on to it. Just a coincidence, I'm sure.

Similar events happened at Tyco, HealthSouth, WorldCom, and others, and it became obvious that CEO's can no longer be trusted to be straight with stockholders. So now, congress has to force them to. And thus, Sarbanes-Oxley was born.

What is Sarbanes-Oxley? It's a law which makes it a crime for corporations to lie to the public. And to prevent the "I thought I was telling the truth" defense, there are piles of new rules for safeguarding companies against tampering by outsiders.

Last week, I spent three hours on the phone with my CFO: We needed a procedure to prove that our payroll is not being tampered with between the time we submit it to the payroll company and the time we receive our checks the next day. I shit you not.

What does all this have to do with your perverted blogger friend Steve? My employer happens to be a public corporation, and therefore is subject to all provisions of Sarbanes-Oxley. And being the manager of a district office, I am personally responsible for implementing every new program required under the law. It takes me hours every day to deal with the details, and of course, my regular work doesn't go away.

I am lucky to be where I am, and I try to be thankful for my success every single day. But it's getting harder. I work 60-70 hours a week, and I struggle to stay five days behind. Sometimes I think about quitting.

I have always prided myself on my memory. I never used to write down phone numbers, and would easily recall details of conversations that happened months earlier. I used my memory like a tool, intimidating people by reeling off numbers and facts, impressing Tim by reminding her where we were the last time she wore that shirt. I would laugh on the phone with my brother, rattling off lengthy Monty Python quotes in a fake British accent.

When my mind was sharp, there was no limit to what I could do. I could relive important moments from my past, enjoying my memories like a virtual scrapbook, call out answers easily while watching Jeopardy!, and solve newspaper crossword puzzles. I could bang out emails while talking on the phone and answering a question for someone standing in my doorway, all at the same time. But work has destroyed that, consuming every available byte of brain space, overwriting "Cheese Shop" with "sustainable compliance" and "internal controls". At some point, it's going to be too much.

Bonnie will buzz me and remind me that I have a doctor's appointment, and five minutes later have to remind me again. I go for months without changing my oil and forget to have my cars inspected; I skip meals; I promise to be home at six and then, when I walk through the door at 10:30, ask Tim what her problem is, having no idea what her dirty look is for.

She has been great, though. She does my laundry and my errands, and makes me call her an hour before I'm leaving so she can have a nice dinner waiting for me when I get home, and sits across from me as I eat it. She's always eaten already, so she just sits, smiling, talking about what happened on Survivor or American Idol that night.

She cuddles up behind me in bed, locking her body against mine like one puzzle piece to another, running her hand over my chest, worrying aloud about how hard my heart is pounding and whispering in my ear that I'm home now, that there's nothing to be stressed about while I'm here. I know I sound like a pussy, but it touches me that I finally have someone who wants to take care of me, and who I trust enough to do so.

I don't dare complain to Dan Johnson. I know what he'll say: That he's working more hours than I am, that there are 20 men who would kill to have my job, men who are older than me and who have been with the company longer, that I should be thankful to be where I am.

He's lost his sense of humor, Dan. He's gotten meaner, older, less patient. He doesn't ask what I've learned today anymore; he just launches into a monologue when I pick up the phone, before I can even finish saying my name, hanging up before I have time to ask a question.

I used to be all about the money, the stuff, and the power. As I get older I care about those things less. For the first time, I don't want the most powerful job; I want the easiest one. I want to go home when the sun is out, power down my laptop on Friday afternoon and leave it off until Monday. I want to leave work on a Thursday morning and say, "See you guys next week!" I want to take a five-pound sledge to my PC when I hear that brain-eating da-dum sound.

And most of all, I want to remember again.

"I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine"

Every once in a while, people ask me who I think the sexiest woman in the world is.

Usually, I'll throw out a standard answer: A petite, dark-haired hottie like Eva Longoria or Vanessa Marcil normally works quite nicely, thank you.

But that was before I happened across HER. Now, I have to pause for a minute before I can remember names like "Carmen", "Britney", and "Jessica", because they have all faded to distant runner-up positions, no longer able to hold a candle to her incandescent hotness.

I'm thinking she can't be older than 20. She's got the fresh, unspoiled complexion and innocent face of a teenager, yet she somehow also manages to floor me with the eye-popping curves of a Playboy playmate.

She can't possibly be 21. Her eyes tell me she is younger than that.

Something happens to us at 21. We get a world-weary look. We are adults. Everything is legal to us; there is no longer any fun or intrigue about mundane things like getting away with drinking alcohol. There are no taboos anymore, and a little part of us dies when we realize it. And when I look at her, I can see that little light, still alive.

I think a lot about what happened to me, about what went wrong, about what makes me tick. About why I am attracted to the girls that I am. Why do I like them short and waifish? Why not plump and meaty? Why not deiseled out, with biceps like baseballs and waffled abdomens? Why do I love long hair? Why not short?

I just don't know. Some of my girlfriends have looked vaguely like my mother, and the psychological implications are obvious: Mom took off when I was just a kid, and the little boy in me believes that it was because I was somehow unworthy of her, so I am subconsciously trying to win her back, if only to scorn her the way she scorned me. Sometimes I believe that, and other times I think it's utter bullshit. Again, I don't know.

But when I clicked on that hyperlink a month or so ago, I knew that all of the ideal female characteristics had been flawlessly assembled into one drool-inducing specimen. I still don't know why her look appeals to me so much; but at least now I know what my ideal looks like.

She is almost too hot for words. The smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, as if sprayed from a water bottle. Her wet, pouty lips, made to lock lustily with mine. The full, heaving breasts that she holds precariously in her hands, like an armful of ripe melons that could spill out at any moment, unleashing her heavenly nakedness. Her girlish, tight waist, setting off her voluptuous chest with frail femininity. Her smooth, round ass, begging for a hand to run softly over its graceful contour. Her thighs, shapely, yet dainty enough not to touch at the top. Her fingers adorned with rings and long nails, reminding me that she is a woman, all the way down to her hands.

And yes, I adore even the bump in her nose, a modest imperfection that only serves to remind me how equisite the rest of her truly is.

I watch hard core porn, with all of its super-tight closeups of tiny girls getting penetrated by oversize dongs, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. She, by contrast, never lets us see her totally naked, but she somehow manages to drive me insane anyway. Maybe it's because, when I see the cozy smile on her lips when she is clad in jeans and clunky soles, I realize that she knows how to kick back. You can't fake that look.

There's a concept called Madonna and the Whore; it says that when some men find the ideal female, they don't want to corrupt her by having sex with her, and that they reserve their more carnal desires for less worthy women.

Fuck that.

I want to fuck her. And if I ever did, I'd have to see every detail. Turning off the lights would be a crime. Half the fun, hell, MORE than half the fun, would be watching silently, unblinkingly, as she lowers her thong to the floor, staring at her soft brown eyes as she pulls her tight t-shirt over her head, her long hair falling back down, obscuring part of her face, and seeing those sexy legs spread wide open, with my cock turning her pussy lips inside out, and then flipping her over, doggie-style, her ass-jiggle and boob-hangage burning indeliable images onto my brain.

Not only would I videotape it; I'd videotape it from three different angles, then splice together a Steven Spielberg-worthy cinematic masterpiece adored by the masses, a "Forrest Gump" of fucking.

I want to hear her soft moans as I penetrate her; I want to run my hands over her stiff nipples and hold tightly to her sexy waist, staring as I slip smoothly in and out of her. I want to make her come, see her suck her lips in and close her eyes as she shudders and trembles in orgasmic ecstasy.

But then again, a quickie in the McDonald's bathroom would be cool too.

It's somewhat complimentary, in a way...

Dear Steve: I wrote you but you still ain't bloggin'.
I left my AIM, my MSN AND my ICQ at the bottom.
I sent you 12 emails, you must not have got 'em;
You prob'ly got a PC where the spam detector blocks 'em.

Anyways, fuck it. What's up, Steve, how's Tim?
And how's that dude Rob? You still fightin' with him?
Guess what? I signed up with Blogspot. Now I'm a blogger too!
It's called 'What have you learned today?' Ain't that name cool?

I read about that chick Holly, too, I'm sorry.
I know she's a sick bitch, but she sounds like a badass hottie!
I love your blog man, your writing is sick.
I've been reading since you ass-fucked Lila with Chap-stik!

I got a scrapbook full of your posts, and your comments, man.
I like that thing you do with Ari, too, plus that chick is stacked!
Anyways, i GTG. Be cool. Hit me back, and we'll chat.
Your number one fan, this is Dan.

My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad

Dear Steve: you still ain't dropped a post. I hope you don't forget.
When I see you haven't updated, I get a little upset.
If you didn't want to IM me last night, you didn't have to.
But you coulda said you had to go, instead of leaving me hangin.
I sat at my computer till 2am, and you just logged off.
That's pretty shitty man, you're like my fuckin' brother.
I thought we were homies man, looking out for one another.

I forgive you though, Steve, cause I know you don't mean it.
See, my life is just like yours in a way.
My mother was always fucked up on pills and booze, too,
And I'm a major playa with the honies, just like you!

I can relate to what you say in your blog,
So when I'm feelin' sad, I click you up and you make me smile.
I even put your name on my name tag,
So I can pretend to be you for a little while.

Sometimes I go to the high school and check out all the hotties;
It's like pornography, I just act like you and the girls are all up on me!
I like how you tell it straight, and you don't care what people think.
You don't need no fuckin' girlfriend, and you don't need no goddam shrink.
You gotta email me, man, seriously, I miss you!
I'd hate to have to call Dan Johnson, blow your cover and dis you.

My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad

Dear Mr. I'm-too-busy-to-blog-for-my-fans,
This'll be the last MPEG I EVER send your ass!!
You're prob'ly too busy fucking that little whore Tim-
I know you were online last night, I saw you on IM!

So this is my video I'm sending you. I hope you see it!
I'm in my room right now, fucking a 13-year-old girl scout.
Hey Steve! "Hi, my name is Dan, and I'm a sex addict." how does that sound?
Remember when you saw Lila at the Gap, and you thought she was so hot?
And you said it wouldn't have mattered if she was 12, you woulda wanted her anyway?
That's kinda how this is. I don't care how old she is.
She has long hair and juicy lips, just the way we like 'em, right, Steve?
Now I'll probably go to jail, and it's all your fault.
And all I wanted was a lousy IM or an email.
I hope you know I tore my scrapbook ALL to fucking hell!
I loved you Steve. You were my only friend.
I hope you get caught and have to lie about it.
I hope you stay up all night and you cry about it!
I hope you get fired from your job and go broke because of me!
[girl screams]
Shut up, bitch, I'm trying to talk to Steve.
See, Steve? This is the little shorty I picked up at the junior high school.
But I didn't try to mack her up, see I ain't a pussy like you.
I just hookwinked her and brought her up to my room.
[Sirens approaching]
Well, gotta go, the cops are pulling around.
Hope I can hit "send" before they break the door down...
[static, video stops]

My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad

Dear Dan, I meant to write you sooner, but I'm busy as all hell.
You said you have a blog now; what's the URL?
Look, I'm flattered you would call your website that,
And I'm sorry 'bout the IM thing, I was probably hittin' the sack.

Work just seems to get busier for me.
Tim and I spend a lot of time together, too.
Don't take it personal if I can't post as much as I used to.
I appreciate you coming around to see what I have to say,
And I hope I give you a few laughs along the way.
But I really hope you're careful
With all those girls who seem to give you play.

Yeah, I find teen girls hot--all us guys do!
But you better know the law before you're filling her with goo.

And what's this you say about calling Dan Johnson?
You might just be kidding, but if not, that would be just plain mean, son.
Dan, I think you just need to take a deep breath and chill,
Or else you'll wind up like that guy on the news a couple weeks ago.
He was raping some teenage girl in his house and videotaping it all.
He was trying to send it to someone, but no one knows who;
Come to think about it, his name was.... it was you!

Damn.

Good thing you didn't taste clams....

December 24, 2005
Steve's house

Tim kisses me, quickly, then pulls away, our lips making a little click sound.

Another small kiss, and she pulls back just a bit, so our noses are almost still together.

Another peck, and I am dizzy with my desire to fuck her. "You like little kisses, don't you," she purrs.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Then I slip in a bigger one every once in a while, and it drives you really crazy," she smiles.

She licks her lips. "You taste like foundation."

"I taste like what?"

"Foundation. You know, makeup?"

"Yeah, I gotta cut down. That shit's fattening!"

"I'm serious. Why do you taste like foundation?"

"I kissed your mother."

"She doesn't wear it. And I'm not wearing any either."

She looks at me, as if just realizing the gravity of what she said.

Oh, shit.

"Tim, I don't want to make a big deal out of this, but I saw Stephanie today-"

Her eyes flare like a pro wrestler's at the mention of Stephanie's name. Tim hates Stephanie, whom I would never reconcile with in a thousand years; Lila, who I marathon-fucked a couple of weeks ago, she's got no problem with. Of course, I neglected to tell her about that.

"Why are you seeing Stephanie?"

"I'm not seeing her, she-"

"Did you see her or not?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"She came over. Holly was... calling her..."

"Yeah, right. Why would Holly call her?"

"Holly says I would be with her if Steph didn't break my heart. She's crazy, I told you."

"Why did Stephanie come over? How did she know you'd be home on Christmas Eve? Why didn't she just call you?"

"I don't know how she knew I'd be there. She almost missed me, I was just on my way out. I guess she could have called."

"So you're saying this was a total surprise?"

"A total surprise."

"Why were you kissing her?"

"I kissed her cheek. We made amends, kind of."

"That sounds like fun," she snaps.

"I told her all about you."

"She call me a slut?"

"No, she said she's happy for us both."

"Why didn't you tell me? What if I didn't taste her makeup on you? Were you going to tell me?"

"Of course I would have. I wanted to make up with you first!"

She looks away. I'm sure she thinks I'm getting off too easy, but I've answered all her questions innocently enough.

"I don't think I want to talk to you right now."

"Tim, nothing happened!"

"I don't care! Take me home!"

"Why?"

"You weren't going to tell me!"

"Tim, I was!"

"Take me home!"

"No! We just got done saying we wanted to die without each other, and now we're fighting? Over something stupid?"

She answers me with a pout.

"You have nothing to worry about! Do you think I go around writing letters like that to everyone?"

"Did you ever write a letter to Stephanie?"

"Nothing like that."

"You swear?"

"I swear. She was jealous of you, you know."

She looks away again, pausing silently for a long time. Finally, she hugs me. "Never mind. My mother's probably still there, anyway."

A Very Germy Christmas

Thanks for the linkage, Claire!

Dad update: He's been released from the hospital! Dad, I'm proud of you.

**********

December 24, 2005, 7:15PM
Tim's house

"Merry Christmas, love," Diana says as she opens the door, somehow managing not to crack a smile.

"Diana," I say, kissing her cheek. I'm going to be civil, even if it kills me.

Tim rises slowly from the couch. Her green velour dress hangs from her body, and her nails are worn well past her fingertips. "Hey," she says, slipping a hand around the back of my neck.

I kiss her cheek. "You ok?"

She shakes her head. "I have a cold."

Our eyes lock. "Guess I better not kiss you," she says, and we stand staring, Diana watching closely.

"Mom, dad," Tim sniffles, getting more nasal by the minute, "Steve and I are going to go talk."

A newspaper lowers, exposing Marvin's face. "Hi, Steve," he deadpans as I walk by.

"Merry Christmas, Marvin," I say to the newspaper.

Tim closes the door to her room and sits on her bed. "Are you going first, or me," she asks.

"I will," I say. "First of all, I need to apologize for my... display with the whisky bottle."

"You scared me, you know."

"I know. Anyway there was no excuse for that and I want you to know I'm sorry."

"Ok."

I breathe deeply. It feels like I'm in the middle of a poker hand with my cards facing the wrong way.

"For the first time ever, I really feel like I need someone, like I would die without that person. That scares me, but it also makes me really happy, because I do want to have a forever after with one person. I want a wife and a family. Someday.

"I'm glad to know that I'm capable of feeling so strongly for you. I'm glad that you make me happy, and even that you make me really angry sometimes, because getting angry means that I care.

"We were really good together, and I think we could be even better. Maybe permanently better. I think we'd be crazy not to give it another try."

I can't tell if she's wiping her nose or crying.

"Well?"

"I have to finish blowing my nose."

She trumpets loudly into a tissue, wads it up and drops it to the floor. "It's so funny you said you feel like you would die without me."

"Why?"

"I swear, I wanted to kill myself," she says.

"Me too!"

"OK, maybe we shouldn't be so excited about that," she chuckles.

"I believe it's your turn."

She pulls another tissue from the box and waves it lazily, like a magician preparing to do a trick. "Waiting for a sneeze," she says.

"I keep telling myself that it's not worth it and I should move on, but every time I try to I can't. It scares me too, because I don't like having to depend on someone else. If I depend on someone, that means they might not come through for me."

She sneezes loudly into the tissue. "Know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Seriously, I don't know what it is with you. I don't know why I care about you so much." She pauses. "That sounded bad," she laughs.

"I just mean I haven't been this serious before, ever, but I guess we just grew up at the same time."

"Yeah," I say.

"We're all grown up," she whispers, and her smile tells me everything is perfect. I rub the back of her head, almost having forgotten how soft her hair is.

"I got you a present," I say, handing her a rectangular jewelry box. She opens it to find the letter I wrote, and a platinum wire necklace.

She turns the necklace over in her hand, as if trying to figure out what it is, almost puts it down, then examines it again, finally dropping it back in the box and placing it on the floor next to her feet.

She laughs three times while reading the letter; the third time, her foot moves and she almost kicks the jewelry box.

"So does this mean I have to write you a love letter now?"

"Sure."

"It won't be as good. You should totally be a writer!"

Hey, good idea! Maybe I'll start a blog! Nah, that would never work.

"Come on," I say, with a cheerleader's chirpy enthusiasm. "Let's go to my house!"

"Wait! You didn't open your presents yet!"

"You got me something?"

"Of course I did!"

She hands me a tall thin box that swishes. "Wonder what's in here," I smile.

I tear the shiny silver paper away, read the box, and smirk at her. "Jack Daniels?"

"I had a feeling you needed a new bottle."

"Funny."

"Now open this one," she says, handing me a shoebox-sized package. Too light to have shoes in it, though.

I open the box to find a roll of duct tape. "What's this for?"

"In case you break the bottle," she giggles.

"Did you come up with this shit all by yourself," I ask sarcastically, but I'm laughing too.

"Now open your real present!" She hands me an envelope, and I pull it open.

"What's Meadowbrook," I ask, reading the certificate inside.

"It's a bed and breakfast in the mountains. We can go for a weekend whenever you want!"

Oh good, because it sounded like a nursing home.

"That's sweet, Tim! Great idea!"

"Read the letter!"

"So you wrote me one after all?"

"Yep."

Dear Steve,

If you are reading this, it means we made up, and all I can say is you have made me the happiest girl in the world.

I hope we never have a fight like that again, or if we do I hope we can talk about it. I'm sorry I let my mother interfere in our relationship, but I hope you understand that I love her and she will always be a part of my life. I will work on putting "us" first from now on. Ok?

I am so happy we are back together, and I wish I could say "I told you so" to all the people that said we couldn't do it.

I missed you so much - I love being with you, I love talking to you, I love just watching TV or sitting around with you... I love sleeping next to you and hearing you snore (you do snore, so don't try to deny it), and I love waking up next to you in the morning. Sorry, I'm getting corny now...

It's hard writing this letter, because I am trying to think of all the good times we had, but I also keep thinking that we might not make up. I guess I'll just write it and put it away somewhere and hope that we get back together someday.

I just talked to you and we had a nice conversation. I wanted to say "I love you" so bad but I know we have to "talk first". Speaking of that, I hope we make up before Christmas so we can spend the holiday together.

Well, you are probably tearing my clothes off by now, so I guess I'll stop writing..

Love,
Tim

"Now can we go to my house," I smile.

She pulls me by the hand toward the front door.

"All better now, kids," Diana asks.

"Mom, we're going to Steve's house. Call later if you want to."

"You're just going to leave us here?"

"We're not in the mood for company."

Christmas Eve, the Blogger-delayed edition

"Hi, Steve," she says with a distracted grin.

"Come on in!"

I go to hug her. She hugs back, but presses a hand against my shoulder as she does. I move in to kiss her and she turns her head and kisses the air instead.

"You ok, Steph?"

"Yeah, I'm alright. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas to you! So what brings you out this way?"

"I can't really stay, I just... well, I wanted to say hello. And Merry Christmas, which I just said..."

"Steph, sit down. You want a drink?"

She shakes her head and follows me into the family room. She pulls her coat off and sits on the recliner, and I'm reminded that we've had sex on that chair more times than I can count. She used to love doing it there; she said the angle was just right for me to hit her G-spot.

"So, how's it going," I ask.

"It's ok. School's not quite as bad as last year."

"You acing everything, as usual?"

She rolls her eyes.

"You're gonna make a good lawyer."

"I need to talk to you."

"Aren't you gonna ask me how I'm doing?"

"Steve, don't."

"Don't what?"

We stare at each other, birds of prey sizing up our next meal, each of us sure we'll devour the other. Just like it used to be.

"Nancy's sister keeps calling me."

"Holly?" I gasp.

"Yeah, Holly."

"Where did she get your number?"

"I was going to ask you the same question."

"I didn't give it to her, Steph! Shit!"

"What's going on? Are you dating her now?"

"No, Stephanie!"

I'm starting to really dislike this whole line of questioning. Steph has a way of making you feel like you committed murder, even if you didn't.

"Well, it's getting a little out of hand, Steve."

"What's she saying?"

"She keeps saying that she would be with you, but I ruined it, that I hurt you, and because I hurt you, you're not ready for a relationship."

"That's ridiculous!"

"So you mean to tell me you didn't say anything to her? About me?"

"No!" I shout. "She knows we were together, but that's all."

She stares at me, surely reading my face for some clue that I'm lying. The nostalgia vanishes, drowned by resentment. She never trusted me, did she?

"You don't believe me," I say, staring her down.

"Why is she saying these things?"

"She's stalking me. She has been for weeks. Chris and I went and talked to her, and she stopped. But I guess she didn't really stop, she just turned it onto you."

"Well, I had my criminal law professor talk to her. I think he set her straight."

"How so?" I want to know, but I also want her to leave. I hate that she thinks I could do such a stupid thing as to tell Holly my relationship business. It hurts that she thinks so little of me.

"We called her together. He basically told her she was breaking the law. He offered to take her for a tour of the women's prison. Her 'future home', he called it," she says with a chuckle. "By the way, she also said you committed statutory rape," she frowns, lifting her eyebrows disapprovingly.

"Steph, she was-"

"Sixteen? I know. He told her it was legal. Don't sweat it, Steve, you're off the hook for that one."

Oh, good! Maybe I'll go do her again!

"I told her the same thing."

"Well," she says, standing up, "I just wanted to see what the deal was."

"You mean you wanted to rip me a new one."

"No I didn't."

"Yeah you did. You never believed in me, did you?"

She stares at the wall behind me.

"I didn't come here to discuss that."

"Thanks."

She tilts her head at me. "Oh, come on, Steve. Like it was ever going to work out with us."

"I had fun with you. I hate that we never got a chance to say goodbye."

"Me too."

"Really?"

She nods. "Thank you for some really nice memories," she whispers.

"You too!" I say, trying to see her downcast eyes. "Can I have a real hug now?"

We embrace tightly.

"I have to get back. My-- Josh -- is bringing his family up for midnight mass."

"Yeah, I'm actually supposed to be at Tim's house in a little while."

"So you're dating her now," she squints.

"Yeah, we're actually really happy."

She bobs her chin. "Well, I'm happy for you both," she says, and she almost sounds genuine.

"Me too. I'm glad that it's going ok for you."

She smiles. "It is."

"You deserve that. Look, I just want to say I'm sorry-"

"Don't." She shakes her head. "It's ok."

"I hurt you."

"I hurt you too. Didn't I?"

"I deserved it. You didn't."

"We're both better off now. It just wasn't meant to be."

She hugs me again, body-to-body, like she used to do before bed. I feel her lips against my cheek, and then by my ear.

"Merry Christmas," she says, and then she is gone.

"You didn't happen to see a maniacal teenager out here, did you?"

Wednesday, December 21, 2005, 7:01PM

"What's a saltbox," Tim asks.

"It's a kind of house. A colonial. Why?"

"My mother said, 'Do you think the two of you are going to buy a four-bedroom saltbox with a picket fence?' "

"The two of who? Me and you?"

"Yep."

"So you and your mom were talking about me?'

"Yep."

"And?"

"She asked me what our status was, and I told her I didn't know. But I said I was hoping to talk to you."

"I'm hoping to talk to you too," I say.

"When?"

"How about Christmas Eve?"

"Sure! Come over around 7 or 8, ok hon?"

This might sound corny, but I really like that she called me that. I like that we're talking. For people like Tim and me, that is huge. Normally, both of us would run at the first sign of relationship trouble and never speak to the offending party again.

**********

Saturday, December 24, 2005, 6:00PM
Steve's house

My doorbell rings.

Damn that Holly. I should have known it was way too easy getting rid of her after all that demented behavior. She left me alone for what, a week?

I leap up the stairs two at a time and, at the last moment, I peek out the window to see who is there, even though it's definitely Holly.

It takes a minute for her face to register. It's a familiar face, one I'll never forget. She made me very happy once.

I study her, happy that she doesn't see me; watching her brings happy nostalgia, like finding an old poster from my childhood bedroom.

She's pretty. Prettier than I remember. I like her appearance, her shiny shoes, her comfortable-looking jacket. I'm even impressed with the way she stands at my door, her back straight, her chin up. I am glad to say that I loved her once, and that she loved me.

I open the door and smile warmly. "Hi Steph," I say.

...if only you were older, and more mature, and less psychotic..

December 18, 2005

Sometimes it seems like everything is the way it used to be.

Tim and I talk most every day, but as soon as the conversation turns serious, one of us tells the other to knock it off. We talk, laugh, and flirt like we always have, but nothing more ever seems to happen. It's maddening.

I don't know if I'll ever give her the letter I wrote. I just want to see her and tell her face to face how I feel. We've talked about "stopping by" or "getting together" a couple of times but it's never happened. At this point, I have my eye on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. If we can't reconcile then, when can we?

"I thought you were coming over to bring me my skillet," Tim says on the phone.

"I'm not ready to talk right now."

"Who said anything about talking?"

"You want me to just give you the skillet and leave?"

"If you want to."

"Do you want to talk to me?"

"About what?"

"Tim," I say, impatiently.

"About us?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know. I'm not used to - reconciling."

"Me neither!" I laugh. She laughs too, and I'm glad that we feel the same way.

"We'll talk soon. All right?" I ask.

"OK," she says. "Are you going to talk to that chick?"

"Holly? Yeah. Any advice?"

"Just tell her you wish you could be together, but it's bad timing. Make sure you say that: bad timing. It works for me."

"You've had stalkers?"

"Oh God, yeah. You guys can get pretty clingy sometimes."

"Bad timing, eh?"

"Bad timing."

11:30am

I love the mall at Christmas. There's nothing like 20-foot Christmas trees, Paul Bunyon-sized wreaths hanging from the angled ceiling, and stampedes of frenetic soccer moms running each other over for the last Xbox.

"Why won't you take the coupon?" a man complains at an Auntie Anne's kiosk.

"You have to buy three pretzels for that, sir."

"That's fucking bullshit," he replies.

Isn't it funny how people get so mean around the holidays? The only reason they come to the mall in the first place is, ostensibly, to buy gifts for loved ones, to celebrate the spirit of Jesus' birth. And evidently, they intend to bask in the love shown to us by that little baby boy, even if they have to snap someone's neck in the process.

Chris and I walk up to The Body Shop on the second floor, and Holly is there in her apron, amid the massage oils and scented candles. She sees me immediately, and she glares angrily for just a second before her face softens into a big grin, as if she tried to hold back but couldn't.

She trots through a maze of browsing customers and stands on her toes to hug me, then kisses my cheek longingly, holding her lips to me for so long that I find myself pushing her away.

"Hi, Chris," she says with a glance at his face, shaking his hand limply.

"Can we talk to you for a minute?" I ask, and she looks from my face to Chris's, and then back again.

"Hold on," she says. She walks behind the counter and whispers to an older woman who nods. "Let's go!" she says, pulling her apron off, and we wade into the wall-to-wall foot traffic.

"Holly, things are getting a little out of control," I say.

"You're the one who won't return my messages. You're being rude!"

"I don't have anything to say to you, Holly!"

"But sometimes I just want to make sure you're ok or something, and you won't even call me back."

"Holly, you don't need to check on me. We're not together. You're really great, and you're gonna make some guy really happy someday, but it's just... bad timing."

"What do you mean, bad timing?"

"I mean, the time just isn't right for us. It just feels wrong. At a different time, at a different point in our lives-"

Chris glances at me. He doesn't look happy, and I'm not sure he's pleased with the direction in which we are going. "Holly, look, you've done some inappropriate things. Some of those emails you sent Steve were... pretty scary. And the door... I know if it was me, I would have called the police."

"Steve raped me. If he calls the cops, I'm gonna report him," she snaps, looking angrily at me.

"He raped you?"

"If the girl is under 18 it's automatically statutory rape."

"Holly, the age of consent is 16 in this state."

"No it's not."

"Trust me, it is. And even if it was statutory rape, that doesn't give you the right to stalk him."

"So you're calling the cops on me now?" she says, her face going pale.

"We don't want to call the cops. We don't want to call your parents either. We don't want to call anyone. But you have to cool it on the stalking."

"What do you mean, my parents?" she says, wide-eyed.

"We don't want to call anyone," I say. "If you give me your word that you'll stop calling, and emailing, and visiting, then it stops right here. But if your parents get involved, they're probably going to take your car away, and you might not be able to work anymore. From what I heard, they needed a lot of convincing to get you a car in the first place."

She looks at me for a long time, with the wounded pout of a little girl.

"OK," she says.