Lila and me

A lot of you who contact me still ask about Lila. People in my non-blog life do the same thing. Hopefully, that means I've done a good job of describing her.

Lila and I are still friends, but we don't talk as much as we used to. Part of that is because I'm married, and doing all the things that newlyweds do. For Tim and I, a month without some kind of romantic getaway is an eternity. We're always visiting family, or eating at some new restaurant, or catching up on "our shows", and it doesn't leave much time for anyone else.

Sometimes Lila and I will text each other, or send a quick email to say hi. Occasionally, we'll talk late at night, like we used to. Beyond that, we go from one month to the next with little contact.

Lila's been with her boyfriend, Nate, for well over a year, and the more I hear about him, the more wary I get. At the beginning, he struck me as a cool, successful, well-adjusted guy and a great match for her. But as she's gotten to know him, he seems terribly insecure and needy.

The script was written long ago, and it's been played out more times than Hamlet, MacBeth, and Cats combined. Stop me if you've heard it:

Young man grows up and becomes irresistible to women. He beds one after another,
satisfying his every wildest erotic fantasy, having his way with any female within smelling distance of him. They simply can't keep away from him, and he's having the time of his life.

But there's a serious problem. With the ocean of testosterone flooding his veins, the only possible way he can quiet his voracious sexual hunger is to spray his manly fluids around like a lawn sprinkler, dousing as many women as possible. It's just a matter of biology, really: He simply can't control it!

But the women don't understand, you see. He only needs them for an hour or two, and they want more. Having experienced his rugged manliness, they fling themselves at him, clutching at his pant legs like sad children, begging him to remain in their lives, however superficially.

He could have these women any way he wanted them, of course. He could simply drop by their houses, unannounced, fuck them mercilessly, and then piss in their toilet bowls and leave without lowering the seats, and they'd be on his voice mail the next day, asking him to do it again.

But, alas, this is not how he wants it.

It would get complicated. These poor, naive girls, they simply don't understand what it is to be a man like our hero. They don't understand his need to roam the earth, fornicating with wild abandon. They would interpret his repeated conjugal visits as "love", or "commitment", or "lack of nausea", and soon after, the demands would start.

They will demand that he be exclusive. That he only date them, to the exclusion of all others, that he holster his babymaking weapon and only draw it for their benefit. Sadly, this is impossible, and our happy horndog rides off, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake.

You ought to know this story, since pretty much every guy between the ages of 17 and 35 has been telling it since the mid-70's. Nate is no exception.

At the beginning, Lila used to tell me about this mysterious guy who would give her a little head-nod when he walked past her at the gym. Sometimes he'd say hi. One day they were next to each other on the treadmills and he told her she had "great arms". It sounds corny, I know, but she wore tank tops every day from then on, hoping to impress him. As if she had to try.

I gotta be honest. Hearing about some young stallion macking up Lila made me jealous. I know, I know, I'm married, but I get territorial sometimes. I could see she was really intrigued with him, and it made me realize that both of us had moved on.

She would call me and wonder aloud if he noticed her, if he thought she was attractive. Was she serious?

"But I don't even shower before I go to the gym!" she said.

"Get a clue, honey. The guy is drooling over you."

She doesn't get it. Lila could go to the gym in a garbage bag, and guys would be tripping over each other to hand her a twistie-tie.

By the time he asked her out, she was about ready to rip of his Adidas sweatsuit and ride him cowgirl style on a weight bench. Call me cynical, but I wondered if this guy was a true player, or if he just lacked the balls to hit on her properly.

On Friday nights, he either played poker or went out drinking with co-workers, and every time she asked to come along, he'd give her a speech about "taking it slow". Pushing her away like that, giving her a challenge, made her want him ten times more. Guys didn't do that to Lila!

"Why won't he take me with him? Is he ashamed of me?" she would ask.

"Lila, do you seriously believe that? Really?"

"Well, why then?"

"He's either trying to play the I-don't-give-a-shit role to make you want him more, or he's afraid of falling for you. Or he's queer."

"Maybe he has another girlfriend."

"Then who needs him?"

The cool-dude routine faded away soon enough. After about a year with Lila, Nate was dropping hints about marriage. She was flattered, but she didn't encourage him, hoping he'd get the hint and slow down.

"He just asked me," she said on Thanksgiving night, and I could tell from her tone that she turned him down.

I figured he would dump her after that, but he didn't. In fact, he didn't even back off; if anything, he got worse.

After months of negotiating (or begging, depending on your point of view), he asked her again on Valentine's Day, and she said yes.

"Why can't you be happy for me?" she asked.

"Because you don't seem happy."

We fought about it, and I was secretly glad that she was unhappy, that Nate did not inhabit her the way I thought he might have. And I think Lila knew it.

A month or so later, she was calling me again, just like she used to, and she sounded sadder than ever. As part of Lila's "take it slow" requirements, they haven't set a date yet, and it's a constant source of irritation for him.

Now that they're engaged, he smothers her even more than before. He works out with her at the gym, rushing to her side any time a guy so much as says hello. If she's 15 minutes late coming home from work, he wants to know why, and he especially hates her talking to me.

She's not forbidden from calling, exactly, but I do get mysteriously cut off sometimes while talking to her. He trash-talks me constantly, asking why she wasted her time with me, and if she says anything remotely resembling a defense of our relationship, he flies off the handle. It's funny in a way: he's 30, ten years older than Lila, and yet she dominates him, like a young girl with her father wrapped around her little finger.

Even though I'd be jealous, it would still be nice to see Lila in something resembling a stable relationship.

And it would be nice to talk to her like I used to, too.

Too bad she didn't die in an M&M factory...

Saturday, December 2, 2006, 12:00pm
Lila's office, parking lot


"I'll drive, if that's okay," Lila says.

It's un-Decemberlike today, with air so warm and inviting that I roll down my window as we drive. She guides the car to the highway and onto a bridge, and there is something familiar about the dark gray oil tanks and heavy construction equipment that block my view of the water beyond. I've gone this way before, but not for a long time...

"Are we going to the hospital?" I ask, finally.

"Mm-hmm," she says, without looking at me. I wait for her to explain, and she doesn't.

I'm not sure what business she has at the hospital, but we're not going to visit someone; if we were, she would have told me. Besides, yesterday she said she had to "talk" to me, not visit a sick friend or relative.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that Lila might be the one who is sick. Maybe she's being tested for HIV. Maybe she's already tested positive, and she wants a doctor to break the news.

My stomach turns to ice. If she's HIV-positive, that would mean that...

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" I ask, finally calming myself down enough to speak.

"Oh, nothing really. I just... go there sometimes, and I wanted some company."

"You go to the hospital? Why?"

"I don't... never mind."

We park on the third level of a dank garage. Lila's heavy footfalls echo loudly against the pavement as we walk to the entrance, the way Dan Johnson's do; it's the walk of an important person who would never be here without a good reason.

"Hi, sweetheart," says the receptionist as we breeze by.

"This is where my nana stayed, right before she passed away. She had pneumonia. They took such good care of her. They were so nice."

"The nana I met last year?"

"Yeah."

Lila's great-grandmother Fran died this summer; I remember signing the sympathy card that got passed around the office. I vaguely recall that she was distraught about it, but at that point, if it didn't involve eating, sleeping, fucking, or wiping my ass, I didn't have time for it.

The first, and last, time I ever saw Fran was a snowy December day, and it struck me how alone she was, cooped up in a small 12th-floor apartment, while in the cul-de-sacs far below her, families gathered, sharing the joy of the season.

"Did your mom ever go visit her last Christmas?"

"Doubt it. She sent her a card, that was probably it."

"So we were the only ones who visited her during the holidays?"

"I went back a couple of times."

"Hello, dear," says an elderly woman with a walker.

"Hi, Margaret, merry Christmas," smiles Lila. "This is my friend, Steve!"

Lila leads me to the cafeteria, where we dine on leathery roast beef and bruised apples.

"Aren't those beautiful?" she asks, pointing to a series of wintry scenes painted on the picture windows. "This guy came in and did them all in, like, six hours."

"How often do you come here?"

"Couple times a week."

I look at her.

"I know you think I'm a whack job. Forget it, I shouldn't have brought you here," she says, and her face falls into the prettiest pout you've ever seen, with the slightly-jutting lower lip: Subtle, yet powerful enough to empty Bill Gates' bank account.

"I do get it. You miss her."

"Mmm."

"You should have seen yourself walking here just now. You kept looking down the hall like you were waiting for someone. Like she was gonna come around the corner in her wheelchair any minute."

"So you don't think I'm coocoo for coming here?"

"Does Nate know you come here?"

"No. You didn't answer me. Am I crazy?"

"Pretty much."

"Steve," she laughs.

I'm sure most of you think she's cracked, but I don't. Everyone always talks about what's really important, and what's really important invariably winds up being family. No matter how successful we are, no matter how much money or how many toys we have, spending time with those we love is the most important thing, or so we are told.

But of course, when someone we love dies, we are programmed just as aggressively to move on, to forget that person and live our lives. We are to light a candle, shed a tear, and then get back to folding our laundry. Why? What is so weird about going to the last place Lila saw her great-grandmother alive, if it brings back good memories?

Being here makes me think, too. My dad was very ill this year, and I'm lucky to still have him here. I don't have to hang around the hospital, wishing I had another day with him; I can actually see him whenever I want.

"I think you're a hell of a lot sweeter than I'll ever be. When I die, I hope someone does that for me," I say, finally.

"I need to show you something," she exclaims, and leads me down the hall so quickly that I have to trot to keep up. We round a corner, and she seems not to notice the breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows to our right; instead, she stops at a wall filled with five-foot-high wooden plaques, each one covered with rows of small brass nameplates. She reaches up over her head and points to a plate reading, "IN MEMORY OF FRANCES LEGGIERO"

"See? That's my nana," she says, like a proud little girl.

The double date

Friday, December 1, 2006, 7:15pm
Ming Garden Restaurant

Nate is tall and chiseled, exactly the Abercrombie model-wannabe that I envisioned. He is careful to take control of the conversation early, and to be our table spokesman, speaking on behalf of the group each time the waitress visits.

Nate might as well be pissing a circle around Lila, marking his territory like a wolf. He's no doubt heard all about me, and he wants me to know that she is his now, not mine, and that his biceps are bigger than mine, too.

I have no idea why he's insecure, if he is at all. He's taller than me, younger, and better-looking. He's more Lila's physical equal than I am, and I often wondered why she never dated more guys like him.

"You have a Z4, don't you?" he asks, when the conversation lulls. "Those things have crappy suspensions, I heard." He smiles broadly, and the girls chuckle.

Don't you just love when someone basically spits in your eye and then laughs it off? You try to give it back to them, and it's "Hey, ease up! It was just a joke!" But guys like Nate always slip up eventually, and when he does, I'll be waiting.

"Yeah, the sport suspension is standard, and it doesn't like bumpy roads. Anyway, I sold mine."

"Uh oh," he chortles. "The girlfriend is laying down the law!"

"I wish I had that much control over him," Tim says. "Actually, it was--"

Lila slaps his arm lightly and grits her teeth at him. "Sorry," he mutters.

I'd know that mutter anywhere. That's the I'm-fucking-Lila mutter. You tell yourself that you don't need her, that she is just another warm pit stop for your little Darth Vader, but you know that if she ever pulls that steady sex stream out from under you, that you'll collapse to the floor, reduced to a shivering wreck, a heroin addict quitting cold turkey. I've muttered more than a few insincere "sorry"s myself, in order to keep the sexual gravy train rolling. I can't blame Nate one bit.


"Steve, let's go smoke a stogie in the bar," Nate says after dinner.

"Ick," Lila says.

"It's not that bad," Tim says. "Let me just use the girls' room and I'll get us a nice dessert wine!"

"I'm not 21--" Lila says, but she is gone.

"Good call. I'm gonna hit the head too," says Nate.

"I'm sorry about what Nate said," Lila says, once we are alone.

"Still breaking him in, eh?" I laugh.

"Are you free for lunch tomorrow?" she says, and my cock goes instinctively stiff. But my gut is wrong; she can't want sex. If nothing else, she would never insult Tim that way.

"I--"

"There's something I need to talk to you about. Can you meet me at the office at 12?"

"You're working on a Saturday?"

"Just in the morning. So can you meet me?"

"Sure. Where do you work?" I smile.

"Shut up," she laughs.

Gum isn't pussy

Psycho chicks are by far the best in bed.

Traumatic childhoods. Drug problems. Nasty breakups. All of them swirl around a woman's brain, flipping the cerebral switches necessary to turn her into a dick-loving sex fiend.

It all boils down to self-esteem, if you ask me. Remember the chick in high school who got her first boyfriend, and sat in class wistfully scrawling his name on her books? Remember how she couldn't go more than 30 seconds without talking about him, and then wandered the halls wailing like a widow when he finally dumped her for someone cuter? We all shake our heads sadly to hear about a chick who's that far gone. And we all long to have that power over someone.

The real sick ones, like Krista, only wish they could get some guy to commit. They don't try to find boyfriends, lest they get turned down or dumped, which would make them feel even worse.

"She needs help," you are saying. "She needs therapy. You should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage of her."

At my old office, there was a vending machine filled with Chicklets. It sat there for months, until, at some point, someone found out that the top was unlocked and could be pulled off, so that anyone could just reach in and pull Chicklets out, free of charge. The pure-hearted folks walked by it every day to get their coffee, never dreaming of taking candy without paying. Me? I indulged lustily, laughing as I grabbed overflowing fistfuls of the free gum, like a pirate running his fingers through a chestful of dubloons.

Yeah, I know, gum isn't pussy, but you see me working. I won't be the one to crack open the vending machine, but I'll help myself to what's inside. It's someone else's job to monitor such things, and to fix them when they break. If they don't, whatever happens is merely Darwin's law at work.

I guess I'm supposed to be Captain Goody Gumdrops, swooping in to carry Krista off to the therapist's office, wherein she will exorcise all her demons. And I am supposed to do it not for money, or thanks, or for any repayment at all, but simply because it is the Right Thing To Do, and knowing that should be more than compensation enough.

Or maybe I am supposed to be aloof, and simply run away from Krista. Maybe I should just walk by the vending machine and leave the gum alone.

First off, I'd be madder than a swarm of hiveless bees if someone tried to force therapy on me. In fact, people have, and that's just how I felt. Secondly, if something is in front of me, and it's free, and the only reason for not taking it is "it wouldn't be nice", I'm taking it. Oh, and this isn't exactly torture for Krista, anyway.

**********

Thursday, November 30, 2006, 6:30pm
Steve and Tim's house

"Nate's taking me to Ming Garden on Friday," Lila says.

"Damn, that's expensive!"

"So does that mean you don't want to come? You said you wanted to go on a double date with us."

"No, we'll come. That sounds like fun! Tim's gonna have to switch with someone to get the day off, I think."

"Are you guys doing okay?"

"Yeah, you know."

"What does that mean, 'you know'?"

"Nothing, we're fine."

"Are you cheating on her? You cheated on me, I know you did."

"Don't be silly, Lila."

"Did you?"

I should have no qualms about telling her the truth. I'm not with her anymore, and probably never will be again, and you all know how loathe I am to lie under any circumstances. Maybe I'm being nostalgic; maybe I want to preserve the idea that our relationship was pure and unspoiled. Even if the idea were only in Lila's mind, it would still be alive.

"No, Lila, of course not."

She pauses. "So, does Friday sound okay?"

"Keep in touch"

Wednesday, September 6, 2006, 1:30pm
Steve's office

Dom agrees that the biggest hurdle between him and my job is his personal life. He has to reassure Dan that he's calmed down, but he can't be too obvious about it; otherwise it will look like he is merely saying what Dan wants to hear.

"When we talk to Dan, I'll handle it," Dom says.

At first, I thought Dan was agreeing to the phone interview as a courtesy, and that he had no intention of considering Dom for the job. But to my surprise, he pulled in three heavy hitters, including the CFO and the VP of HR, for the call.

On the call, I speak as little as possible, letting Dom take the lead, just as he would if he were in charge. Naturally, he answers every question effortlessly, having been with this company for years, and having worked closely with me on every major project I've been involved with. It's going as well as I could have expected.

"Dom," Dan says, "You do realize why Steve is leaving this job, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And you do realize that this is an extremely labor-intensive job, and will be for the foreseeable future?"

"Yes, I do."

"You might not have much of a... personal life. I need to hear how you feel about that."

This is it--the key question of the interview. If he answers this correctly, I think he'll get an offer. They'd be crazy not to offer it to Dom: There'd be no recruiter to pay for, no lengthy hiring process, no long "onboarding" period for him to get acclimated.

"Actually, I have a girlfriend now. We see each other a lot, but we don't go out much. I spend most nights at home lately."

Of course, he's full of shit. Dom doesn't have a girlfriend, at least not that he's told me about, and though he's usually on time for work, he does have the occasional 10:00am raccoon-eyed roll-in.

The line goes dead silent. This is a startling revelation for anyone familiar with Dom; it's like Diddy announcing plans to sell off his bling-bling and join the Hare Krishnas.

"A girlfriend?" Fran, the CFO, manages, finally.

"Yeah!"

"She's not an employee, is she?" Dan says, to uproarious laughter. Guess Lila wasn't as much of a secret as I thought she was.

"No, she's a physical therapist," Dom says. He had a lie ready. The man is one hell of a bullshitter.

The conversation runs long, which to me is a good sign: Why would they bother if they weren't serious about him?

Yes, I want this for Dom. Despite a rocky beginning, we work well together. He's the most qualified person I know for the position, and he's done his time with the company, even moved clear across the country for what was technically not a promotion.

"We'll try to make a decision by the end of the week," Dan says. Another good sign. If they were considering outside candidates, the process would take a lot longer than three days. I think he's got it.

"Physical therapist?" I say, after we hang up, and we laugh hysterically.

**********

Friday, September 8, 2006
Steve's office

Dan Johnson is here, which is yet another good sign. He wouldn't come all this way to turn Dom down.

"Steve, I have some bad news for you," Dan says. Dom and I exchange white-faced looks.

"W-what's that?"

"You just lost your parking spot. Dom, congratulations. You're the new district manager!"

Friday, September 29, 2006
Steve's office

My desk is empty; my phone is silent. All I hear is the steady whisper of air from the heat vent in the ceiling. The vent is directly over my head; I always meant to have it moved, but never got around to it. There are a lot of things like that.

With all the silence, I have time to think, about how it used to be, back when I liked, no loved, my job, when I sometimes spent 12 or 14 hours at my desk, getting up only to use the bathroom, when I worked weekends straight through and woke up from a dead sleep to add to my to-do list. I didn't resent the work then; I thrived on it. It reminded me that I had a purpose. That purpose is Dom's now.

Did I make a mistake? Did I commit "career suicide", as Dan called it? Was I wasting my talent?

Now that the pressure is off, I wonder if I could have made it, if I could have somehow dealt with the stress until things calmed down again. But in the end, I take a deep breath, and all I feel is relief.

"It was nice working with you," my coworkers say, awkwardly running their fingers over my doorhandle. It was "We'll miss you, Steve," and "Thanks for helping me," and "be sure to keep in touch."

But I won't keep in touch, and neither will they. They will get preoccupied with other things, and grow closer with the new boss, and my time here will fade to a distant memory. Dom will do my job, and if he leaves, someone else will take over, and the world won't come to an end. Employees will come, and they will go, like a subway train that never has the exact same group of people on it twice. I made friends here, but most were friendships of convenience; once physically separated, we'll forget each other. That's not a bad thing; just the way it is.

But I'll miss my job.

This is the company where I grew into a true professional, where I learned what a 10-K and an IPO was. I learned budgets, forecasting, and G/L accounting. From now on, I'll be able to say, "Having worked for a Fortune 500 company, I..."

"Steve?" Bonnie says. "I just want you to know it's been a pleasure working with you. You always took care of me. I appreciate that. I want to--" she pauses, looking down at the floor. "I wish you the best of luck." She hands me a small, gift-wrapped box--two tins of rasperry Altoids and a box of Chai tea, my favorites. Funny how silly things like that make me want to cry.

"Are you taking off early?" Lila says, standing in my doorway. It's around 3:30.

"Hey!" I exclaim, leaping from my chair to hug her. "I was wondering if you were going to stop by."

"We're gonna keep in touch, right?" she says, casting her huge eyes up at me. How can I say no to that?

"Definitely. Let's really stay in touch," I say. "Everyone says it, but let's really do it."

"You better," she says. "Call me this weekend, maybe we'll go on a double date."

"Okay."

"I'm really happy here. Thanks for getting me my job back, Steve."

I want to say something profound, something that you would read in a book or see in a movie. I want to dazzle her, or amaze her, or make her cry. But I can't think of anything.

"You totally earned it. You're a great employee, and you have a great future here."

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Are you gonna be okay at your new job? I mean, will you like it?"

"Yeah, definitely!"

4:45pm

"Dom, I won't see you Monday," I say. I'm standing in his doorway, watching as he shuffles three pages of reports and clutches the phone between his shoulder and ear, and it occurs to me that this is exactly how I always looked to him.

"I, wait, Bruce, can you hold on just a second?" he says into the phone, smiling up at me.

"It's okay, Dom, you don't have to," I laugh.

"You sure? I wanted to walk out with you."

"I know the way."

"Well, listen, I--"

"It was a lot of fun," I say. "Just... keep in touch. Okay?"

"I will."

No, he probably won't. And neither will I.

About that happy ending...

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

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

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

"So, when do you start?"

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

"Why?"

"I had to talk to you first."

"Thank you, honey. Now take it!"

"Don't you have any questions?"

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

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

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

"Yep. But I want you to."

Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Steve's office

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

"Steve, what have you learned today?"

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

"Hm?"

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Shit! Am I turning into this guy?

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

"I beg your pardon?"

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

"What's the point, Steve?"

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

"What?"

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

He chuckles.

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

"Cost-benefit," he says softly.

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

Could I be convincing him this easily?

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

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

"Dan--"

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

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

"What are you saying, exactly, Dan?"

"I'm saying try harder."

"I'm done, Dan."

"Try. Harder."

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

"Steve--"

Click.

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

Dan calling, my phone says.

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

"Good evening, Steven."

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

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

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

"I have a few minutes," I say.

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

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

"What mistakes?"

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

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

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

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

Maybe it's a bargaining chip, I think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I doubt it."

"...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.

Contributing to the delinquency of a (hot) minor

Everything has been going so well, for so long, that I had forgotten what an asshole I turn into when I can't get laid.

I was starting to lose my patience with people in the office. I never yell, but I do give nasty looks. Yesterday, Bonnie, one of our older receptionists, stuck her head in the door to tell me that we were doing a birthday cake in the conference room for one of our employees.

I wheel around in my chair and just glare at her, my brow furrowed, chewing my bottom lip.

"Ohhh, I'm very sorry Steve," she says, running away.

Lila has been in lockdown for weeks, and I am tired of sneaking around. I am not one to sit around lamenting my lot in life; when things go wrong, I devise a plan....

What if I "hire" Lila to clean my house, or my garage, or my frenulum (look it up), or whatever I want, for about 5-10 hours per week, and pay her $100 bucks a week or so for it?

It's perfect! Lila gets some extra cash (she already makes enough for a car payment, but if she is looking to move out, a little more would help), her mother would probably approve, knowing that she is in the mature and capable hands of her boss Steve (chortle, chortle) and that she is working, not socializing. And we wouldn't have to sneak around! Suddenly, there would be a perfectly acceptable explanation as to why I am driving Lila back and forth to her house.

[cue maniacal laughter]

I call Lila into my office and tell her about the idea.

"Oh YEAH! Of COURSE!!" She says. "This is PERFECT! But..."

"Hummm?"

"Do I really have to clean?"

"Lila. Come on! My house is friggin spotless! Maybe I'll have you fold my laundry or empty the dishwasher. The rest of the time, we can hang out!"

"And we don't have to sneak around," she says.

"Yeah!"

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you know how long it's been?" she asks.

"Since we've had sex?"

"Six days, 20 hours," she says.

"I'm going nuts too," I say.

She looks at the door, then back at me. Is she thinking what I think she is thinking?

I've always wanted to do it in my office. Always. I have a dead bolt on my office door, and the only one who would dare interrupt me if it were closed is Ross, and he is out of the office for the rest of the week...

I buzz Bonnie. "Bonnie, Lila and I will be on a conference call for the next half hour. Can you cover her desk?"

"Sure, Steve."

Lila gets up and closes the door, then turns the dead bolt. She is wearing a pink and white 3/4 sleeve blouse. She pulls it up over her head.

She is wearing a cream colored satin bra. There is something bizarre about seeing her in her underwear in my place of business. It's unusual, and fascinating, and totally fucking hot at the same time.

She steps out of her clogs, unhooks her denim skirt and slides it down her legs in that sexy way she has. She is wearing pink panties.

Hey, you didn't borrow those from a chick named Kelly by any chance, did ya?

She stops and looks at me, smirking.

"What."

"Are you getting undressed, or what??" She says.

Oh, shit!

I pull off my polo shirt (we have a business casual dress code) and unhook my belt. I take my pants off, gingerly and quietly. I hope my keys don't jingle too loudly, I think.

She sits in my lap on my high-back leather office chair. Her hair almost completely covers my face. The green-apple smell envelops me; it's intoxicating.

I can feel her skin, warm and smooth, against mine. She reaches back and grabs my hands in hers, stretching our arms out to either side.

Ok, what is this? Office sex aerobics?

I kiss her neck. She turns her head towards me and puts her lips against mine, slipping her tongue into my mouth.

I always envisioned sex in my office as a quickie. But, now that I am finally doing it, everything is happening with exquisite slowness, every detail amplified and magnified.

I open my eyes while Lila and I are kissing. Her eyes are closed, her long eyelashes resting against her cheeks. The angle of her nose, the tight, round slope of her chin, the slight hollowness of her cheeks: They are all flawless.

Why me? I think. What makes me so deserving of her? What does a girl like this want with me? I am almost twice her age! Yeah, I have confidence. I like myself. But she could have....anyone....

"Steve?"

"Hmmm?"

"Baby, is everything ok?" she asks.

"Lila, why do you say you love me so much?"

"Because I do!"

"Why?"

OK, am I turning into a girl? Again?

She turns around and faces me, one foot on the floor.

"Because, Steve, you amaze me! You are so smart, and so funny, and so confident. I love learning from you and hearing what you have to say. And you're always right! People look up to you! Even people older than you-"

I kiss her. "MMMMMMMMMMMMMM," she says.

"You're so sweet, baby," I say. I reach behind her back and unhook her, with one hand. Like I said, it's a rare skill. But here is how you do it:

Reach behind her back and slip your middle finger under the part where the two straps meet. Pull UP with your middle finger, so that the clasp is sticking straight out. Pinch one strap between your thumb and middle finger, and pull on the other strap with your index finger. It takes practice, but you'll get it. If you live with your wife or girlfriend, get ahold of one of her bras when she is not home, hook it around a chair, and practice.

She pulls her panties down. I can still see her, even now, bent over at the waist, her porcelain skin hugging every angle and curve of her body tightly and firmly.

She flips her hair over her right shoulder and straddles me, her knees on the seat cushion. I enter her.

I let out a sigh. It's a huge relief for me, actually being able to have sex again. It's THIS moment, THIS feeling, that explains why masturbation doesn't come close to the real thing.

I suck her nipple while she rides me. I lean back and watch her hips as she grinds them rhythmically against mine. She leans her head back; I feel her hair brush against my legs. She moans quietly.

Her hands are on the arm rests. She is pumping me more urgently, now.

"Ohhhhhhhh," she says. She stops fucking.

"Ohh, oh my godohmygodohmygoooooood," she whispers. I feel her clamp down on me, her body shuddering with orgasm.

I like watching Lila come. And usually, if she has come, it means I have not yet, so there's always an awkward 2-3 minute period after her orgasm where I'm trying to get off before she totally dries up and loses interest.

I shouldn't have worried. Lila reaches down and starts to rub me, with me still inside her. She knows just how I like it, slow and steady, not too hard. I grab her hand and stop it, near the base of my cock. I squeeze her fingers a bit.

The contractions start from inside me. Suddenly, I am gushing into her, filling her full of jizz.

Lila is kissing my neck. "Baby, that was soooo good...I [kiss] love you [kiss]..." Now she is kissing my chest, softly and gently, the way you kiss a new baby. "[kiss] love you so much [kiss]..." Her pouty lips are forming a big letter "O". She is bending over to kiss my chest. I pull her to me and kiss her. Her lips engulf my mouth, her tongue is licking me; the smacking sounds are driving me insane.

I am hard again.

Lila turns around. Her round, firm ass is against my throbbing cock. She rubs it, up and down, against me. I HAVE to fuck her again.

I open my desk drawer. Shit, do I have lube in the office? I don't think so. Maybe I'll find something.

Altoids. Cough drops. business cards. Office keys. Sugar packets.

Fuck. FUCK! Come ON, man!!

AHA!! Vaseline lip therapy! Not ideal. But close enough.

The tube is half full. "Lip therapy" is the same as regular Vaseline; only the packaging is different. I squeeze a glob of it on the head of my cock. Then more on the index and middle fingers on my right hand. The tube is almost empty.

I rub the Vaseline around her tight little asshole. It is spotlessly clean: You'd never guess shit comes out of there!

I press the head against her ass, slowly. I push it with my fingers, just a bit, and hold it there. I can feel her hole opening.

It takes a while, but now my head is inside her. I work it, slowly, gently, in and out, until suddenly I am almost all the way in her. She sits up straight and starts to ride me. She inhales sharply through her teeth.

I reach around and find her clit and touch it, press my fingers against it, then hold it in place.

I grab Lila's hips and hold them with my other hand. I am all the way inside her. I reach up and grab her tit. Now I am exploding in her again, grunting and moaning with ecstasy.

Just curious: Do I still have to give Lila a coffee break today? Maybe I should check with HR...

I pull out of her; she leans back against me, our faces side by side. She sighs. I kiss her. "I just wanna fall asleep in your arms," she says.

Luckily, I have paper towels in my office. There was, um, a LOT to clean up. But we did, and got dressed faster than I thought possible.

I keep thinking back to when I asked her why she says she loves me. Why did I need to know that? Why is it on my mind? Am I just curious? Or am I really falling for her?