Note to self: Buy rat poison

"What's wrong, Steve?"

"I gotta go to work."

"Who's calling you? Dom?"

"No, it's the alarm company. Alarms are tripping all over the place at work."

She rolls up her window. "Can I watch Toby? Just until Linda's sister comes back?"

"Steph, she's just gonna keep taking advantage of us-"

"If I don't want to do it next time, I'll say no!"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"I can't believe I'm considering this."

"Steve, I used to babysit triplets, you know. If I can handle three, I think I can handle one."

"This kid ain't right though."

"I can do it."

"You sure?"

"Trust me."

"OK. He stays in the family room. No kitchen, no dining room, no living room. And as soon as the chimney guys are done, he goes home and you watch him there."

"And when her sister calls, she takes over."

"I'll be back shortly," I say. Steph gets out of the car; I take off.

**********

"Did you trip the alarm?" I ask the cleaning lady at my office.

Blank stare. She's quite attractive, really: She's maybe 23, tops, and she always wears tight jeans, exposing that mouth-watering gap between the tops of her thighs.

Her mouth moves silently. She's got no clue what the hell I am saying.

"The ALARM," I say, punching imaginary keys with my right index finger.

"Ohhhhh, ohh," she says. "Yes."

"So the alarm went off?"

"A-al-arm?"

Oh, for Christ's fucking sake. I wish I could speak her language. I speak some Italian, but I basically know no Spanish at all. Maybe there's someone around here who could translate....

I got it! "Is Pablo here today?"

"Pablo, Pablo yeah!" she says, smiling.

"Where is he?"

"Where?" she repeats, with a narrow-eyed look.

"Never mind."

I run to the stairwell, hop down one flight and open the door. Dead silence.

Another floor. I hear the sound of vacuuming. I open the door, and there is Pablo, his "vacuum pack" on his back.

"Pablo, did someone trip the alarm upstairs?"

He turns off the vacuum. "Yeah, Consuelo did. I guess she put the wrong code in. I hear the alarm going off; so I go up there and put in the code," he says in a thick Hispanic accent.

The cops come. I explain to them what happened, and they question Consuelo at length. Apparently, she had not worked for a while and forgot the code. The code she was putting in was one digit off, and that immediately notifies the alarm company.

I've gotta get out of here. That little bastard is probably trashing my house as we speak.

I race home.

**********

It's very quiet at my house. I'm almost afraid to open the door, but I do.

Steph is sitting on the family room floor. She looks up at me with puppy-dog eyes, her face pale.

"Steve. I'll clean it up," she says. She is hugging Toby, their faces pressed tightly together. He is eyeing me without a word.

My family room is trashed.

Shredded magazine pages everywhere. Couch cushions askew. Milk splashed across my TV screen and the wall next to it. There's a ring ding on the floor, part of it squashed into the carpet.

I walk slowly towards the front of the room. A basket of folded clothes is turned over; shirts, pants and boxers are strewn on the couch, the floor, the coffee table.

Something catches my eye and I walk over to it.

My $200 Lenox vase is smashed to bits.

I pick it up. Half the vase has been pulverized into tiny shards, but the other half is intact. It's jagged-edged, like the Phantom of the Opera's mask.

I look to Steph and Toby. My head turns slowly, as if underwater.

"I'll pay for it, Steve."

My heart races. My palms sweat, and my hands shake. I can feel my breathing quicken as I open my mouth to speak.

"I want him....OUT of here."

"NOOO!" Toby shreiks. It's a shrill, high-pitched cry that makes me jump.

"Toby, you broke Mr. Steve's vase. He's very upset about that."

"Very upset"? No, that's not quite getting it for me. How about, "Mr. Steve wants to rip your spine out and use it for a back scratcher?"

"Toby, get your shoes on," I say quietly.

"No! I wanna stay here!"

I look down. There's another ring ding, ground into the carpet. I fling the unbroken part of the vase against the wall. It smashes loudly into pieces. I can feel my face harden as I grind my teeth at the two of them.

"OUT! NOW!"

"Toby, we're gonna go back to your house now," Steph says.

"NOOOOOOO!" he shreiks again. He breaks free of her grip, knocking her down, and bolts towards the living room.

I grab him as he runs by and lift him in the air, his feet flailing wildly.

"Get his shoes."

"Put me down! Put me DOOWWWWN!"

I sit down on the couch, laying him down flat with his legs across my lap. I hold his shins down as he thrashes and squirms, and Steph rushes over to put his shoes on. I turn to Toby just in time to see his mouth open hugely, sharp teeth exposed, like a Tyrannasaurus Rex.

He grabs my forearm and bites down savagely. Needles of pain shoot fiercely into my skin. He pulls his mouth away and he has torn my flesh. I am bleeding.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" I yell. I know I shouldn't be swearing in front of a kid. Maybe I'll apologize later. If Toby is still alive.

I put my hand under his jaw and force it closed; his teeth clack faintly together. Steph crams his shoes onto his feet and grabs his coat.

"Stand him up," she says.

I grab him and stand him upright, my arms around his waist. She positions his arms out in front of him.

"Hold his arms." I do.

She flips his coat upside-down and slides the sleeves over his arms, then lifts them up over his head. Just like that, his coat is on.

Wow, nice trick! Now, just clean up my family room and I'll be REALLY impressed!

She puts a hand on Toby's shoulder and guides him out the door.

"You forgot your coat," I say, throwing it to her. Our eyes meet.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

I turn away in disgust.

Past blogger chicks featured on Stevo's blog

November 2006 - February 2007
Ashley!
"You know why I am blogger chick of the month? Because I am an earnest believer that sex is like wrestling: raw, sweaty fun that is taped weekly."


January - November 2006
Blondage!
"I often fantasize about Steve standing behind me as I am bent over his desk..skirt flipped up...panties down...waiting...wondering...shaking my ass at him. Does he know what a bad girl I am? Does he know I want it rough? Will he spank me until I cum...?"

January 2006
Emily!
"I'm pretty sure that the only reason I was deemed blogger chick of the month is because Steve has pictures of my boobs. And speaking of boobs, When I finally get to suck on Shannon Elizabeth's, I'm totally going to let Steve watch."

December 2005
Jen!
"After cleaning furiously I sat in the shower with the hot water relaxing me, taking me to a safe, warm place... and I had orgasm after mindrushing orgasm. It was probably because I read too many of Steve's stories last night."

November 2005
Magda!
"For the right person, I can be a very naughty girl. There's nothing I love more than someone who knows how to shut my smart little mouth, someone who knows how to make me beg, someone who knows how to break me."

October 2005
Jess!
Quote: "Money is power, and sex is power, therefore getting
money for sex is simply an exchange of power."

July - September 2005
Ashley!
Quote: Sometimes I push myself to keep doing sit ups through the pain just so I can one day see the mischievous look on Steve's face when I "climb out of the bathtub and dab the water off with a fluffy towel." Plus, Steve desperately wants to "fill me with his stiff rod" despite the fact that I'm not in high school, and don't have a gigantic forehead and bulbous eyes.

June 2005
Margaux!
Quote: "Now that i'm actually 18, I might need a fake ID to look 17... the younger the better, right Steve?"

May 2005
The Amorous Rocker!
Quote: "Licking cake icing off of Lila's pussy. Using a popsicle as a dildo on Vicky. Steve truly gives new meaning to the phrase "Sweet Treats"!"

April 2005
Stephanie! (A different one)
Quote: "Steve's blog is like a drug. Completely addicting and such a ride. I would like to see what kind of ride his cock would give me in all my warm holes."

March 2005
Lori!
Quote: "Three things I have in common with Steverino: Writing, Orgasms, and Pink Floyd. Someday when I find out where Steve lives, I'm coming over to his house to do a "Dark Side of the Rainbow" and whatever else pops up...."

February 2005
Christina
Quote: "The hot, fast car. The sleek large desk. The power at the office. The multiple orgasm inducing talents in the bedroom. Where do I sign up to be Steve's next wrong girl to persue?"

December 2004 - January 2005
Foxy [WARNING: NUDITY]
Quote: "Id fuck steve so well he'd forget his own name"

December 2004
Girlielockhart
Quote: "When I read Steve's blog, I find myself wishing he'd find a way to travel down my way sometime. I'd make it worth his time - I'd suck his cock like no one's ever done before, then I'd beg him to fuck me until we were both cumming out of control."

November - December 2004
Slippery Sweet
Quote: "I'd like to flick my tongue over Stevo's head, feel him shiver under my hands, and make him cum a hundred different ways."

November 2004
Paige
Quote: "I don't have any qualms with being a slut- as long as I am the one to say it."

September - October 2004
Missy Mae
Quote is MIA...sorry guys! But if I recall correctly, it was something about getting with another girl (as long as a bit of alcohol was involved).

So hot it's scary.

Eva Longoria

Long, dark hair. Smoldering, chocolate brown eyes. A bumpless nose, just slightly turned up at the end. Thick, juicy lips that curl up a bit in the corners. Teeth like porcelain. A tight, gently curved jawline. Even her toenails turn me on.

Is there ANY part of this woman that is not perfect?

Love in a phone booth, part II

"......not sure........gotta.......actually..........today......."

I'm hearing maybe every third word Michael says. Steph has my belt undone and is slipping her hand inside my boxers. The cold finds its way to my lower half immediately, freezing my twig and berries as if my underwear wasn't even on.

I really want to get that plaque today, but if I don't, I don't. From what I gather, he might not be able to wait for me.

"I understand, Michael. I'll be...there...."

She slides her hand under my sweater and pinches my nipple. This girl is really going for broke, isn't she?

".....as soon as....I....can-"

She kisses me square on the lips before the words are even totally out of my mouth. I slam the receiver down as the kissing intensifies.

"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" I ask.

"Mmm-hmmm."

I slide my hand under the waistband of her sweats. She's wearing a thong.

"You are so sexy when you talk on the phone," she says.

"Is that right?"

"Yeahhh," she moans.

I pull her sweats down about six inches. We are maybe 100 yards from the road; I can hear the cars racing past. Are we really going to do this?

"Oh my God I am freezing," she says.

I put both hands on the globes of her ass and pull her against me. She puts her foot on an empty bottom windowsill, and we grind our hips together, desperately, urgently.

I put my hand under her sweater, and the t-shirt she is wearing beneath it. No bra; her tits are warm and hard.

"Brrrrrrrr," she says, shivering. "Your hands are like ice!"

"Car?"

"Car."

I walk around to the driver's side. She follows. "You first," she says.

I climb in and move my seat back as far as it will go. She straddles my legs, facing me. I watch intently as she slips her sweats down, exposing her firm, shapely thighs. The warm air feels good blasting out of the car's heater.

I slip my pants down, not off. We need to be able to make a quick getaway.

She stares at me with big eyes, her mouth slightly open, and lowers herself slowly onto me, never looking away from my face. Somehow, the feeling of penetrating her seems more intense when I am not looking.

I put my hand on her naked ass as it rises and falls in smooth, silent rhythm. I watch her arm muscles strain as she grips the seat behind me for balance. I listen to the sound of her breath, quick and shallow.

"That feels so fucking good," I say.

"Oh yeah," she says, closing her eyes. She lowers her torso against me and her grinding slows almost to a halt.

A car passes in front of us, slowing to almost a complete stop as it goes by.

I put my hand behind her, just underneath her butt, so I can feel myself sliding in and out of her.

"I want you to suck on my tits," she says, pulling her sweater and shirt up.

I lick her nipple, slowly, then take it into my mouth, caressing it with my tongue.

"Mmmmmmmmm"

Beep beep! Goes a car horn. For all I know, he could be beeping at another car and not us.

Yeah, right.

I look down and watch my cock penetrate her. It's the first I've looked this whole time. I am amazed at our perfect in-and-out rhythm, and how we both know exactly how far to pull away from each other so I don't slip out.

"Oh my God," she says, pushing against me, harder. Her lips are on me, wetly, kissing under my ear, my chin, my cheek. She bites my ear, hard; I hear her breathing so distinctly now, husky and labored.

"I wanna feel your cum inside me," she says, pulling back a little, putting both hands on the seat behind me.

Now she is really grinding away at me, her hips making big, exaggerated circles. I put my hands back on her ass, and I can feel it flexing as she rides me. I look up and our faces are almost touching. We kiss; I come.

She falls against me as our breathing slows back to normal. Another car passes, slowing almost to a halt.

This was probably a bad idea. But maybe we'll come back sometime, at night. During the summer.

**********

We get to the trophy shop. Michael is still here.

"Was just about to lock up," he says, unsmiling, as I pay him.

We rush back to the house and get the car adapter for my phone and Steph's purse. Linda is walking down the sidewalk, towards us, in her black-and-red dog sweater and no jacket as we pull out of the drive.

"What the hell does SHE want," I wonder aloud.

Steph rolls down her window. "Hi, Linda."

"Hi, Stephanie," she says, frowning.

"How are you?"

"I think Charles has pneumonia. He always gets it during the winter. He was up coughing and wheezing all night."

"Oh, that's terrible! I'm sorry."

"I think we're gonna take him to the emergency room."

"Well, I hope he's feeling better."

"Could I ask you a favor?" Linda says, squinting.

"We have plans, Steph."

She shoots me an angry glance.

"What is it? We do have some plans today, though," Steph says.

"Toby doesn't do well with doctors. As soon as he sees the hospital building, he goes crazy. He doesn't understand that he's not gonna see the doctor-"

My phone rings. It's the alarm company. Someone tripped the alarm at work. "Call Dom," I say, giving them the number.

"I would never ask, but my sister said she'd watch him, and I went over there, and now she's not home," says Linda.

Got outta Dodge, eh? Smart girl!

Steph looks at me with a sad face.

"Fine, just go over there and call me in a little while," I say.

"Actually, the guys are there doing the chimney cleaning," Linda says. "They're using these big, loud vacuum cleaners. Toby doesn't like loud noise."

"So you want us to watch him HERE?" Steph says.

"I would never ask, but..."

"Forget it, Steph, we're busy."

"Steve, Charles has to go to the HOSPITAL!"

"I'll keep trying to call my sister, and as soon as I get her, I'll have her relieve you," Linda says. "I'll pay you, too."

"I think that's a good idea," I say. Knowing that it's not free will probably make her more reluctant to ask next time.

My phone rings again. It's the alarm company.

"There was no answer at that number you gave us. And a second door has been breached. We're calling the police."

Something tells me Steph and I are not making our doctor's appointment.

Love in a phone booth, part I

Stephanie and I are always fighting.

You might not believe it, because I don't blog about it much, but we are constantly quarreling about something: I usually don't mention it because I figure you aren't interested in hearing about me getting honked off every time she loses the remote to my cable box (which, incidentally, is just about every day). Nonetheless, I have never fought this much with a girlfriend, ever.

Stephanie is a slob. When she wants to look good, she cleans up amazingly well, but she never wants to! And on the rare occasions when she does, she leaves a trail of balled-up socks and inside-out jeans twisted up on the floor, like some kind of sloppiness demon that has just been purged from her body.

I'm surprised I have not had a nervous breakdown yet. Every time she sleeps over, I come back from my morning jog to find dried coffee stains on my counter, along with a liberal dose of sugar, sprinkled around like the remnants of a brief snow shower.

She leaves the cap off the toothpaste, and piles of dirty clothes everywhere. Dishes stack up in the sink, and my trash pail looks like the streets of New York City during the garbage strike.

And of course, far be it for me to just clean up behind her. Oh, no! There is PRINCIPLE at stake! I must take a stand, lest she think I am her personal maid! And that, of course, leads to scintillating exchanges like this:

"When was the last time you emptied a trash pail, Steph? Who was president then?"

"Don't be a fucking smart ass!" she says, not looking up from her textbook.

"Did they have electricity yet? Was it prior to the age of antibiotics?"

"Not funny!"

"Were there steam engines? How 'bout cotton gins?"

"I'm not laughing."

"I'm not kidding. Empty the friggin' garbage!"

"It's your garbage."

"It's YOUR crap in there from when you cleaned out your car!"

"I'll GET to it!"

"No you won't. It'll pile up to the goddamn ceiling, until it looks like that friggin' mountain from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and then I'll get tired of looking at it, and I'll do it myself!"

"FINE, Steve, FINE!" she says, slamming her book to the table. She removes the bag, ties it closed, and replaces it with a new one, stomping and pouting the whole time.

"UGH!" she says through a clenched jaw, her hands balled into tight fists. "You are so.....fucking......ANAL-"

I can't help it. I burst out laughing. So does she. I swear, half our arguments end in laughter.

**********

Saturday, January 15.

My friend Paulie is the most pussy-whipped person I know.

I agree, I'm giving him a run for his money lately, but he's still the undisputed king of pussy whippitude. In the last year alone, he has:

1. Caddied for his girlfriend's mother on the golf course;
2. Played bridge with his girlfriend's mother and grandmother, and their friends; and,
3. Painted his kitchen mauve because his girlfriend likes the color.

Part of being a guy's best friend is having the obligation to tell him when he's gone off the path of guyness and wandered into wimpdom. I've made comments here and there, but it's time to make things a little more obvious.

Earlier this week, I went to the trophy shop and ordered a little plaque, and had it inscribed, "2004 WUSS OF THE YEAR".

It might sound mean, but Paulie and I have a rich ballbreaking tradition. We've been going back and forth this way for a long time. After one particularly drunken year, he bought me a t-shirt with the words "Puke Machine" silkscreened on it. I still have it somewhere.

I told the trophy guy I needed it by today, since Paulie and I are going to be hanging out later.

12:30pm. Steph didn't drive last night; she needs a ride home so she can get her car and go to study group, and I need to get to the trophy shop before they close at 1:00. We're also supposed to go see Steph's friend, a nurse, at the hospital to get our testing done so we can stop using protection.

"Steph. Let's go!"

"Can't you see I'm watching this?"

She's engrossed in the latest episode of Desperate Housewives. I have Comcast DVR, and it's so much fun to use that I spend most of my free time recording and watching shows that I normally wouldn't give a shit about.

"Steph, it's recorded. You can watch it later!"

"I'll never get around to it. Just let me finish watching! It's almost over!"

I open the garage and start the car, then come back inside. The show ends. It's 12:40. We're cutting it close.

"Come ON!" I shout. She grabs her coat and we take off.

There's a work crew from the phone company working on a pole. We sit in traffic for five minutes.

"Do me a favor. Call that number on the receipt," I say, pointing to Steph's visor. "Tell the guy we are running a little late and see if he'll wait for us."

"Oh, DAMMIT!"

"What?"

"I left my pocketbook at the house!"

"You don't have your PHONE?!"

"You were rushing me! Give me yours!"

I pull it off my belt and hand it to her. She stares at it intently, pressing buttons.

"It's dead."

"It's DEAD? I charged it last night!"

I pause. "Oh, shit. No, I didn't. I totally forgot."

"A-haaaa! Mr. anal forgot to charge his phone!" she laughs.

"I can NOT fucking believe this. We have NO fucking cell phones between us. Not ONE."

"Are we almost there?"

"No. There's a phone booth at Cottonwood Dairy. Maybe I'll stop there."

"A PHONE booth? No one makes phone booths anymore, do they?"

"Evidently so."

"Can't you just get it for him later?"

"I'll never get around to it," I say mockingly.

"Shut up," she smiles.

I pull into Cottonwood Dairy and drive to the back of the parking lot. The place is boarded up for the winter. Hope the phone still works.

I get out of the car and walk to the phone booth. It looks just like you might think: Dented, scratched, and faded. The door is gone, and most of the plexiglass panes are broken or missing completely.

I pick up the receiver. Dial tone. Yes! It works!

I pat my pockets; they're empty. "Steph, can you get me some change?"

She rolls down the window. "What?"

"Can you get me some change? There should be some in there."

She gets out of the car and strides over to me, handing me about six quarters.

I deposit fifty cents and dial the number. It's about three minutes before 1:00.

"MBJ Trophy."

"Michael."

"Speaking."

"This is Steve. The guy with the plaque?"

"Oh yeah, the wuss award," he laughs.

"I'm running a little late. I wonder if you could-"

Steph kisses the side of my neck, about an inch below my ear. Her lips are warm and soft against the hard cold. For some reason, that spot really gets me going. It makes me vulnerable, like some kind of sexual Achilles' Heel. Usually, when she kisses me there, she makes sure she's ready to finish me off. But we're in a phone booth...

"Hello?" Michael says.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, so I was wondering if you could-"

She kisses my neck, right next to my Adam's Apple.

"-wait for me-"

She bites my earlobe and slips her tongue into my ear.

"Wait for you? Ahhh, how far away are you?"

I'm maybe five minutes out. But now I've got business to attend to.

"Fifteen minutes," I say.

To be continued.....

The death of youth

Sunday, January 9, 9:00am.

"Every time I go to print somethin', the damn thing goes out on me!"

"It goes OUT on you, dad?"

"I get the damn black screen, and then the thing goes off, and then it comes back on..." I can almost see him, tilting his head this way and that as he speaks, gesturing with his free hand.

Dad is a true Italian: He's stocky, with jet black hair and dark skin. And he tends to eliminate h's, so that "thing" is pronounced "ting", and "the" is "da", just like the guys you see on The Sopranos.

And dad is hairy as hell. I tell him that he's always wearing a sweater, even when he's naked.

People are afraid of my father. He does look mean, and he can blow up if you harass him long enough, but mostly he is very calm and collected.

Once, when I was about 9, mom lost a contact lens and was shouting every word on the bathroom wall as she stormed around the house looking for it. Dad calmed her down as best he could, and started asking her questions like a seasoned detective. Somehow he decided that she had vacuumed the lens up, so he laid newspaper all across the kitchen table and pulled out the vacuum cleaner.

He removed the bag and dumped it out onto the table. Bit by bit, he pinched the little gray clumps, rubbing his fingers together over the trash pail and watching the dust and debris cascade down like dirty rain.

Almost two hours later, the pile was the size of an anthill, and it seemed all hope was lost. "I GOT IT!" he yelled suddenly, and sure enough, there it was.

Mom and dad didn't get along well, but she always told that story about him, even when they seemed to hate each other.

"You mean it reboots, dad?"

"Yeah, da damn ting REBOOTS on me! Can you fix it?"

"You mean today? "

"No, next year!"

"Alright, I'll take a ride down."

"Bring Stephanie!"

"So THAT'S why you want me down there! So you can see HER!"

"Yeah. Any chance she can come down without you?"

"She's busy all day today. She starts classes tomorrow. Those people are so crazy. They're already studying!"

**********

I like driving to my dad's house. There's some highway, but it's mostly rural roads. The last few miles are curvy, winding and densely wooded, with nary a house in sight. There's not even a yellow line in the middle of the road. It's peaceful and scenic.

The trees are a dingy, corpselike grey, and the ground below is densely carpeted with the faded orange and yellow leaves that once adorned them. It's so cold, and the trees look so dead, that I wonder how they will ever come back to life. But they always do.

There's the Astorberry Farm, and the William Thomas house, an historic landmark from 1807. I make my turn. Just a mile to go.

I pull into dad's driveway and toot twice. I've always done this. I don't know why.

The garage door opens. Dad is there, keys in hand, wearing a button-down oxford and dress slacks. "Let's go get some bread," he says.

"What about your computer?"

"Forget that for now."

We drive for about 15 minutes to a busy urban section of town. We parallel park against a curb.

We walk about 100 feet down the cold white sidewalk and push open a heavy wood-and-glass door with the words TONY'S BAKERY painted on it. As the door opens, a bell rings, the same way it did in 1975. Instantly, the hearty smell of woodburning stoves is replaced with the warm, comforting scent of freshly-baked Italian bread.

Tony's Bakery has been in the same place since before I was born. Tony's got the same cash register that I remember, the same floor tile, and the same countertop that he's had ever since I was too small to see the top of it.

An aproned man with a salt-and-pepper beard peers out of the doorway. "Frankieeeee!"

"Hey, che si dice?" (It's pronounced keh-zeh-deech) They hug briefly. Tony shakes my hand.

Now watch. This bastard is gonna call me "Little Frankie". Always does.

"How you doing, Frank," Tony says, with a compassionate stare. It's not your usual "How you doing": It's the you've-been-through-hell-and-I'm-worried-about-you "How you doing".

Dad shrugs. "OK. It's hard sometimes."

"She was a good lady," Tony says, rubbing his hands idly together. "A funny lady."

He stares somberly down at the dingy floor tiles. "My honey died six years ago. No, seven now. It gets better after awhile. You get used to it."

I had no idea Tony's wife died. I probably haven't seen him since I was in college.

The two grieving men gaze away from each other, both near tears. I hurt for them; I wonder what it must be like to be so profoundly lonely.

Tony snaps upright as if he just remembered something. "Hey, little Frankie! whattayou up to these days?"

I used to be in awe of Tony. He seemed so tall to me when I was a boy, so big. He worked the oven door and that wide bread-spatula so effortlessly, managing to slide 3 or 4 loaves out of the oven at a time with one well-practiced flick of a sinewy forearm.

I would watch in silent amazement as he'd slip a fresh loaf of bread into a slender bag, then twist it closed and drop it onto a plastic crate with a single fluid turn of the wrist.

It occurs to me, now, that they could probably train a monkey to do those things. And I'm taller than Tony.

"LITTLE FRANKIE?!" I say, as if I've never heard it before. It's a funny thing about old-school Italians: They assume that all sons are named after their fathers, and address them accordingly.

"Wha- what?" he says with a nervous laugh. "Chista ca," (keesta-kaa) he says, looking at dad and nodding towards me. Loosely translated, it means "Look at this guy over here!"

"What's your name?" Tony says.

"Steve."

"Steeeeeve, Steve," he says, with a big nod.

"He came down to fix my computer," dad says.

"Dose tings are for da birds," Tony says. "I won't go near one."

Yeah, and I'm sure Bill Gates weeps every day about not being able to crack the over-sixty greaseball-baker market.

We buy two loaves of bread and a couple of pastries. Tony walks us to the door; dad goes out first, and Tony grabs my elbow.

"Your father's a good man," is all he says.

**********

Dad has the wrong printer selected as his default. As soon as I change it, he is once again able to print to his heart's content. The whole fix takes 15 minutes from start to finish.

We sit at the dining room table and eat Chinese takeout.

I picked up dinner. I paid for it. I fixed dad's computer, and reminded him to have his carpet stretched and his gutters cleaned. I gave a paesan baker a piece of my mind, too. It feels different being home now. Dad isn't taking care of me anymore, or protecting me, or teaching me; if anything, it's the other way around. That makes me proud and sad.

I guess I'm not a kid anymore.

Cleaning house

Now it's my turn to ring a doorbell.

The little light inside Linda's bell has burned out. I press it firmly, and hear a buzz from inside the house. It's like the noise my dryer makes when it's finished running.

A minute passes. Nothing.

BUZZZZZZ.

What the HELL is going on? She MUST be home! Doesn't she care that her kid is at my house?

BUZZZZZZ.

The door creaks open about six inches. I walk inside, and Linda's already got her back to me as she walks rapidly down the hall, talking to herself. "I gotta get the meat," she says.

"Linda?"

"Gotta get the meat."

"Linda!"

"Gotta get the meat. Yeah?" she says, wheeling around suddenly.

"Charles? And your dad?"

She stares at me expressionlessly.

"They're at my house. And now that there's no emergency, they can come back home. But your dad is asleep and Charles is busy playing with my girlfriend, so they're probably both going to need some encouragement. To leave."

"What do you mean, he's PLAYING with your girlfriend?" she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Connect four."

"Hmm," she says with a sidelong glare, and walks out the front door.

Yeah, lady, your 12-year-old, wheelchair-bound son is ball-deep in my 23-year-old girlfriend. Surely you jest?

I follow her down the sidewalk and into my garage, up the stairs, and through the door. "Charles, get your stuff together. We're leaving. Pop? Come on, let's go!" she says.

"But Mooo-oom," says Charles. "Can't Stephanie and I finish our game?"

"No! This guy wants us out now," she says, nodding her head at me.

"They can finish the game," I say, nodding.

"Pop! Wake up!" Linda says. "POP!"

"Ssshhphhh," says Pop. His eyes open.

"Get up. We're going home," she says.

Pop's eyes close.

"POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!!!" She screams. She winds up and smacks his shoulder with an open hand; it sounds flat, as if she is hitting a piece of wood.

All movement stops in the room as we turn to look at Linda. Pop's eyes open again. He stands weakly up and heads for the door.

"I'll bring Charles home when we're done," Steph says.

Pop and Linda leave without so much as a thank you. Well, Pop did thank me earlier for allowing him to pollute my commode.

Steph and Charles finish the game, and he's staring at Steph as she puts his blanket back over him.

"Can you come and help me with my therapy sometime," he says softly.

"Well, I'm gonna be very busy with school starting next week, honey," she says. "Plus I'm not a therapist, so I don't know how I could help."

"My mom does it. She just helps with my exercises and junk."

"Maybe when school is over this spring," Steph says.

"Pleeeeeease??" says Charles. The kid has an eye for hot chicks, I have to give him that.

"We'll TALK about it," Steph says firmly. She has a way of telling people to fuck off while still sounding as sweet as Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island.

**********

Steph and I are back on the couch, where we were a few hours before when my doorbell rang. Peace and quiet, again.

"That wheelchair is falling apart," she says.

"Oh yeah?"

"Charles says his father took off. And his brother has ADHD."

"So how the hell is she paying the mortgage?"

"No clue. Maybe the father pays alimony or child support."

"Maybe so. And Linda works. I see her driving off in the morning sometimes."

"There's a lot of grants and state programs to help families like that, and I bet she's not even taking advantage of them," Steph says.

I roll my eyes.

"What? This is what I want to do with my career, Steve! I want to help people just like her!"

"You just said you're gonna be too busy with school," I say.

"I know."

I really hope she does not turn that weird-ass family into her personal charity project.

Elvira's ugly sister

Monday, January 3, 6:30pm.

Ding-dong! The doorbell rings.

Steph and I look at each other. "Who the hell could THAT be?" I ask.

Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!

Why do people ring the bell repeatedly like that? I'm moving as fast as I can. It's a doorbell, not an accelerator!

I open the front door. When I moved into this house, one of the first things I did was to install a storm door. I really hated the idea that I could open my front door and someone could be face to face with me with nothing in between us.

Through the frosted glass, I see my neighbor, Linda. She's about 5'5", and thin, maybe 110 pounds or less. She's wearing a pair of dark slacks with an eleastic waist, and an old black and red sweater that she's had on every time I've seen her for the last several months. The sweater's got a little dog-emblem stitched near the waistline, but it's hanging most of the way off.

Her hair hangs past her shoulders, long, jet black and sticking out everywhere like stray wires. Her face is tired. Forget bags under her eyes; she's got trenches: Long, deep channels that run diagonally from the bridge of her nose to just above her mouth on either side. When you see her, the first thing that hits you is that she seems tired and old, but she's certainly no more than 50.

"My house!" she shrieks, her voice weirdly muted by the thick glass of the storm door. "My house is on fire!"

I unlock the storm door and open it. "My house is on fire! Can you please call the fire department?"

"Sure, sure, come in!" I say.

Stephanie rushes to the door. I walk to the kitchen, grab my phone, and dial 911.

"Emergency service."

"Yes, I'd like to report a house fire." I give him the address.

"Ok sir, are you a resident at that house?"

"No sir."

"We've already been called about that one. We've got units on the way right now."

"You've already been called? OK, thanks."

I look out the front door and towards Linda's house. No flames, no smoke, nothing.

I snap the phone closed. Stephanie is giving Linda a glass of water.

"They said you called already," I say to Linda. What the fuck is her issue, anyway? And I must sound like a real asshole too, because Steph glares at me. "Ste-eve!" she says.

"I think my father called. He's in the house too."

"Your FATHER is in the house?" Steph says.

"And Toby. And Charles too."

I know one of her kids is about 7 or 8, and another one is in a wheelchair. I thought she had a little girl, too.

"Your KIDS are in the house?!" Stephanie says. "Steve, we have to go get them right away!"

We hear sirens.

"Steph, the house is not engulfed in flames. There's not even smoke anywhere!"

"NOW!" she says, slipping her shoes on.

The sirens are deafening now. I open my storm door to leave.

There's a little old man of probably 75 standing there, bald and hunched over, shuddering in the cold.

"Can I use your bathroom?" He says. "I gotta go."

"Come on in," I say. "Are you Linda's father?"

"Yeap," he says, shuffling by me. "Gotta go bad." A little fart squeaks out of him as he passes by; I catch a whiff and almost fall over. It smells just like a full colostomy bag.

"Steve, come ON!!!" Steph says, grabbing me by the sleeve.

We run the 300 yards down the street to Linda's house. There are two fire trucks and a police cruiser in front of the house, as well as a phalanx of neighbors lined up watching the action, bracing against the cold in their parkas and scarves.

"You the resident?" A fireman says. "Where's the fire?"

"No, we live two doors down," Steph says.

Now, wait just a minute. I know a couple of kids might be dying in the house, but first things first: What do you MEAN, "WE live two doors down"? Don't you mean, "My boyfriend lives two doors down, and I visit him often, sometimes overnight, but I don't stay over too much because I'm tiptoeing gingerly around his fear of commitment"?

"Where is the resident?" The fireman says, as two firefighters enter the house.

"Here she comes!" Linda is walking unsteadily towards us. She appears unable to walk a straight line.

"Where's the fire, ma'am?"

"In my furnace!"

A fireman walks out carrying her son. He stops next to Linda. "Ma'am, Toby is just fine. I'm gonna put him in the fire truck for a minute."

"Yep," she says, not even looking at him. She's staring off into space, whispering to herself, as if trying to remember her shopping list.

Another fireman comes out, pushing a boy in a wheelchair. The boy's got a heavy blanket wrapped around him.

"Where are we bringing the boy, ma'am?" The cop asks.

"How about our house...YOUR house?" Steph says, tentatively.

OK, so just to summarize, we've got an old man with the shits, and now we're going to add a kid in a wheelchair? Throw in a couple of disabled veterans, and we'll have enough for a telethon!

I'm not sure how the hell I can actually say "no", so I agree to it. God help me. "OK, let's go," I say.

The fireman pushes the wheelchair slowly along the sidewalk, over the melted snow and slush. Steph talks to the boy all the way to our house. Charles is his name. "NOT Charlie," he says. "And not Chuck!"

We pull Charlie's wheelchair backwards up the steps in my garage and into the house. As I pass the bathroom, the door opens.

"Thanks a looooot," the old man says, smiling. The smell is enough to make me gag; it's foul and putrid, like dogshit baking in the sun on a hot summer day.

I walk back over to the fireman that we were speaking to. He's talking on the radio. He turns to look at me.

"Chimney's a little clogged," he says. "She was getting some smoke in the house. Or so she says. We didn't see any."

"She said fire," I say. "She said her house was on fire!"

He shakes his head. "We went through the WHOLE house. There's NO fire. That woman's a little......." he bobs his head, left to right, as if trying to decide what to order for lunch.

"Where is she, by the way?"

He points his chin toward the house. "Back inside. I advised her to get the chimney cleaned. She also should have the furnace inspected, but it seems fine. Ideally, she ought to turn off the furnace, sleep somewhere else, and have the chimney cleaned first thing in the morning, just to be sure, just as a precaution. But she says she has to sleep here. And I'm not the chimney police. I'm not gonna tell her she can't stay."

Sleep somewhere else? Bad idea. BAD, I say. I think that's probably the worst idea I've ever heard of since Cop Rock. There is NO fucking way they are sleeping in my house. I'd have to wash all the sheets. No, I'd have to BOIL the sheets. No, I'd have to BURN them.

If they don't want to stay at their house, I'll pay for them to stay in a hotel. That's how much I don't want them at my place. But if Linda is going to stay home, the kids might as well stay with her.

"Is the house safe?" I say.

"Yeah, I'm sure they're ok, but they should get that chimney cleaned. They ought to do it TOMORROW, since they were having a problem. Or since they THOUGHT they were having a problem. And they ought to clean it at least once a year, every year," he says, holding a finger out. "You know, these chimneys are nothing to fool with!"

"Come on, Toby," a fireman says, carrying the boy away from the fire truck.

"NOOOOOOOOO," screams Toby, his pajama-clad feet flapping at 100 MPH. The fireman carries Toby back into the house.

Tomorrow morning, I'll help Linda call and make the appointment for the chimney cleaning, just to make sure it gets done. Now, all I have to do is get Charles and that old guy out of my house. And then install a six-foot electric fence around my yard.

I walk back into my house. Steph and Charles are playing Connect Four.

Not to go off topic here, guys, but remember the commercial for this game, where the girl says, "I win," and the boy says, "Where?" and she says, "Here, diagonally!" to which he replies, "Pret-ty sneaky, sis!"? Yeah, a slanted line is REALLY fucking devious. Because, in the history of the world, no one has EVER won a game of tic-tac-toe with anything other than a straight line. What, does the kid have some kinda head injury?

"Where did THAT come from?" I say, pointing to the game.

"It was in Charles's backpack," she says, pointing to the bag mounted to the back of the wheelchair. "He's a man who's well-prepared! How's it going over there?"

"It's fine. There's no fire, there's no smoke. The chimney's dirty, but that can be cleaned in the morning. So it looks like everyone can go back home."

No one budges.

I look over at the old man. He's asleep.

It's gonna be a long night.

"Tag team, back again..."

Congratulations to Jake, who won the 100k contest and scored himself a Gmail account...

Also, let me take this opportunity to thank all my readers. This blog hit the 100,000 mark early Monday evening. Thanks to all of you for your support!

Finally, thanks for your words of encouragement over the past two days. As I have said to many of you, my comment boards were getting a bit "toxic" and something needed to be done. I'm feeling much better now ;-).

**********

Tuesday, January 4.

Bonnie is standing in my doorway. "Steve, we've got a problem."

Whenever I hear her say that, I worry. Bonnie is very smart and resourceful, and whenever a problem crosses her desk, she makes it her business to take care of it. If she can't do so, it means it's something serious.

I look at her, eyebrows raised.

"I've been getting lots of complaints from employees about health claims not being paid. I tried to handle the first few myself, because sometimes they don't fill out the forms right, but I keep getting more and more..." She holds up an inch-thick stack of paper.

I work for a big insurance company, and now I have to waste time investigating health insurance issues? How annoying is that? Out of everything we do, this ought to be the easiest thing.

"So people are submitting claims, and they're being lost?" I ask. "Or paid late?"

"Going into a black hole," she says. "They're asking for the same information 2 and 3 times, and TLQ is taking months to process them, and then the employees get dunning notes from the doctors. And they're very rude on the phone, too."

"Get Paul in here, please," I say. Paul led the team that selected TLQ to process our claims. I'd say it's time to go with plan B.

I meet with Paul. He's well aware of what's going on and is already trying to work with TLQ to correct the issues. "I'm having trouble getting them to return my phone calls," he says.

"Give me the name of the president of the company."

"I think she's out of the country."

"I don't care."

I dial her number, and she picks up. "Marna, this is Steve. I'd like to meet with you....."

After I tell Dan Johnson about the problem, he wants to come to the meeting as well. THIS ought to be interesting.

**********

Thursday, January 6.

Dan Johnson and I are at the TLQ offices. Their office suite is big and impressive, not at all what we would have expected from such an inefficient company.

Paul has a family emergency and is unable to be here. We chose not to reschedule.

"Now, when we walk in there, Steve, I want you to sit at the far end of the table, directly opposite from me," Dan says.

"Opposite from you?"

"All the way at the end of the table."

My organizational behavior professor in grad school was big on that kind of thing. "Meeting-room dynamics," he used to call them. I never put much stock in it.

A receptionist opens the door. Marna and an older-looking man are across from each other at the middle of the table. I take a seat at the far end. Everyone exchanges warm greetings.

"I suppose you know why we are here," I say. I like cutting to the chase. Most meetings could be very short if people did not ramble.

"We are an insurance company," I begin. "Our day is filled with a lot of difficult tasks. Like most people, we barely have enough time to do everything we need to. So it's extremely frustrating when my time, or anyone's time, is wasted on INSURANCE claims, of all things.

"When one or two people complain, maybe we could dismiss it. Improperly filled-out forms, lost paperwork, and so on."

"Let me take a step back," Marna says. "I need to assess-"

"And before I forget," I interrupt her. No way I'm letting her slow me down. That's just what she's trying to do. "I'm also getting complaints of rudeness. That's even less excusable than sitting on medical claims! I know that if my medical bill wasn't paid for three months, and then someone snapped at me, I'd be complaining too!"

"Our staff is-" she begins.

"SIXTY percent," I cut her off again. "SIXTY percent of my staff is on an HMO at this point. The only people on this plan are the more long-term people who didn't want to switch over. Out of courtesy to them, we're not forcing the issue. Do I have to force these 20-year employees onto a different plan just because we can't get claims paid?"

Of course not, but I'm making a point.

"No-" she begins.

"But yesterday takes the cake," I say. "I got THIS letter from an employee, threatening legal action. LEGAL action! He's going to SUE us, because YOU won't pay his claims!"

"May I see that?" she says.

"Perhaps you'd also like to see THIS," I say, raising my voice slightly, holding up the stack of unresolved issues, which is now well over an inch thick.

She leafs through the stack. Her face is ghastly white; she's muttering quietly to herself.

"We definitely have work to do," she says, finally. "I had a supervisor working with my claims group, and for whatever reason, he wasn't notifying us of the backlog..."

"Don't you, or someone else, get reports each week, or each month, of outstanding claims?!" Dan says, jabbing the hardwood table for emphasis: tak, tak, tak. It actually sounds quite loud in this suddenly very quiet room.

"It's somewhat informal," Marna says.

"INFORMAL?!" I say. "What does that mean, you pass each other in the hallway, shouting numbers back and forth?"

"There are laws regulating this sort of thing, you know," Dan says.

Marna is totally defeated. Her head lolls slowly to face me, then back to Dan, then back to me, like a prizefighter who is about to fall to the canvas. No matter which way she looks, one of us is staring at her. She's like a caged animal.

I guess meeting-room dynamics work after all, don't they?

"I need one week," Marna says. "Obviously, I'm not involved closely enough in what's happening down there, and I need to straighten some things out. I'll put a team together and strategize, and...."

"Make it three days," Dan says.

Her head slides to the left, slowly.

"This is our credibility on the line here," I say. "Some of these long-term employees, they love to criticize. They love to write long letters to CEO's and boards of directors. And long letters lead to meetings, and meetings lead to wasted time."

I'm not as concerned about that as I appear to be. But I need to drive my point home with authority.

"I am hearing you," she says. She looks close to tears.

"Three days!" Dan says. "I need to hear back from you with a plan in THREE. DAYS. Or we'll hire another firm effective February 1."

"But our contract is-"

"I'm sure there's a way out of the contract somewhere in here," I say, grabbing the stack of complaints and shaking it.

"I....I'll be back to you in three days," Marna says.

Dan and I get up and show ourselves out.

I look at my watch. The whole meeting took a little over a half-hour.

Stevo reaches the end of his rope

OK, I have fucking had it.

I woke up this morning and read my comments, only to find a debate over - you guessed it - pussy shaving. This blog must be fake, you see, because I couldn't possibly have shaved a vagina THAT clean with clippers.

You know what, guys? If you like this blog, read it. If you don't, then don't. And just this one time, I'll answer the question, in the hopes that it will put a stop to the endless tooth-grinding and hand-wringing that goes on about me.

All the names are fake. You knew that already, from previous posts. I also change places, dates, details, and other facts to protect my anonymity. If you read about me at a wedding with a tall brunette, I was probably at a bar mitzvah with a short chubby redhead. With the kind of traffic I get nowadays, I am sure I would have been caught already if I had not done so.

If you read about me fucking, it's because I did it. Believe it or not, in the grand scheme of things, I don't get laid all that much. I am certainly NOT the most promiscuous person I know. Not by a long shot. I'm probably not even the most sexually active person on my street! I'm also not the richest, don't have the biggest house, and I'm not the most successful. Not even close. What the fuck is so hard to believe?

"It sounds too much like a book or a movie." I'm WRITING here, guys. That's the vibe I'm going for! Read "Larry King by Larry King". It flows just like a good book when you read it. Does that mean he's lying?

I probably shouldn't get pissed, because most of the comments I get accusing me of being fake come from the same 3 or 4 losers who post anonymously every few days. On a Monday, they tell me how much I suck, and I figure they're gone for good, and by Wednesday, they're back again. Maybe I'll just block their sorry asses from now on.

It was two of the ass-lickers mentioned above who started the whole vagina-shaving debate. But a regular reader chimed in, too, so I guess I'll respond this time.

I shaved her with the clippers until I saw stark white flesh and a big pile of pubic hair on the bed. Yeah, now that you mention it, there might have been some stubble left behind. It still looked damn good to me.

Why did I say "No trace of pubic hair anywhere?" Because those are the words that came to mind! You guys have already spent much longer thinking about these words than I ever did. After a hot-ass sex scene, and me saying "I love you" to Stephanie for the first time, that is all you can come up with?

Yeah, I know, they're just comments. But do me a favor: Don't fucking nit-pick me. I'm serious. It makes me not want to do this anymore.

I'm never telling you who I am. I'm never telling you where I work or where I live. If you doubt me, you'll never get the proof you seek. If that is a source of irritation for you, (as Jack Nicholson says in "A Few Good Men") then I don't give a shit. Read and enjoy. If you don't enjoy anymore, then it was nice knowing you.

While I am purging my demons, let me address another common comment: That I am arrogant. What, you're just finding this out? I could get married and have five kids, and I'll still be a cocky son of a bitch. That ain't changing, and it hasn't changed since the beginning. DEAL.

I tell you all these things because I have decided to block anonymous commenting, and to delete certain comments that I feel don't add to this blog in any way. If you think I am fake, I'm probably not posting your comments anymore. You've had seven months to make your case. I don't like censorship, but there is starting to be a bad vibe around here, and it's time to clean it up.

A series of close shaves

Keep those Bloggie nominations coming, gang! Maybe your ol' perverted pal Steve will win a blogging award! Lord knows I have busted my ass enough to deserve one.

*********

January 1, 2005.

I pride myself on paying attention to minute details. I notice things that other people wouldn't see in a million years; that is one reason why I have climbed the corporate ladder so quickly. So, you can imagine how hard I am on myself when I miss something obvious.

Yeah, I was loaded last night. Forget three sheets to the wind; I was an entire Wal-Mart bedding department to the wind. Totally, completely shitfaced. But that's no excuse.

Alcohol doesn't affect me the way it probably affects you. I get bolder and more arrogant when I am drinking. My inhibitions decrease. That's certainly not unique. But as I mentioned earlier, I never lose control. I never black out; I never forget anything. And I can pass any sobriety test you want when I am loaded. I can pound shots all night long, then get up and walk a perfectly straight line or recite the alphabet backwards with no problem. Drunks call it "instant sobriety". Mom had it too. She just chose not to use it most of the time.

With this being the case, you can imagine how upset at myself I am for not remembering to give Cherise her earring back.

"When did you get an earring," Steph says.

When trying to talk your way out of a jam, the way you act is just as important as what you say. You can come up with the best excuse your girl's ever heard, but if your eyes are darting around the room, and you're chuckling nervously, she ain't buying it.

The realization of what happened hits me all at once. Instantly I remember, the flirting, the earring, the forgetting to take it out. Nothing happened! Wouldn't it suck if she gets pissed at me for nothing? I've got to make sure I treat this exactly like the non-event it is.

I reach up and touch my earlobe to buy myself a little time, smiling dismissively. "Ahh, that belongs to Cherise. Damn! I forgot to give it back."

"Who?"

"You know my neighbor Joe? It's his neice from out of state?"

"And she gave you an earring?"

"We were talking about piercings and I mentioned I had a pierced ear, and she said, 'Here, put this on, let's see if it's still open'," I say, pulling out the earring and laying it on the nightstand.

"Talking. Right. I'm sure you were flirting," she says, smiling.

"Nothing happened," I say, evenly.

"I know. I trust you, Steve."

She climbs into bed next to me. "Did you miss me?" she asks, batting her eyes.

"I TOTALLY missed you." We kiss, separate, then kiss again. There's a long pause.

Then we are on each other like vultures, kissing and groping desperately. It's been a long time, and we were fighting, too. This ought to get interesting very quick.

I slide my hand under her sweatpants. No hint of underwear.

I'm liking this girl more every day.

I cup my hand over her perfect buttocks, reveling in their smooth roundness. My left hand finds its way under her sweatshirt. No bra.

Her breast is firm and taut in my grasp, and I go immediately hard.

"Ohhhhh," she says. "I was thinking about you the whole way down here."

"You were?"

"Mm-hmmm."

"Did you touch yourself?"

"Mm-hmm..."

"In the car? While you were driving?"

"Yeahhhhh," she says, as if she is high. "I wanted you soo bad."

"What did you want to do to me?"

"I wanted your big hard cock inside me."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mmmmm. I wanted you to fuck my pussy nice and hard."

I am so hard I can barely take it. I get off the bed and pull her sweats off, almost forcibly. She sits up and flings her sweatshirt off.

I sleep in boxers, so I slip them down, and I'm naked before she is.

I sit back down on the bed. "Did you shave again?" she asks.

"Yeah, about once a month."

"I like it. I didn't like it at first."

"I like it too."

She stares at me for a moment. "Shave me."

Oh, HELL yeah! NOW this girl is speaking my language!

There's no hesitation on my part. I reach out with my left hand and slide my nightstand drawer open, pulling out my trimmer with one fluid motion, almost without looking. I flip it on; it buzzes like a hummingbird.

I pull her legs over the side of the bed. I really should get a towel for this, but I don't dare stop now.

I press the trimmer against her flesh, lightly, and draw it slowly downward, watching her light blonde hair fall to the comforter.

"Ohhhhh," she moans. Yeah, getting trimmed feels really good. I'm usually half-hard myself by the time I'm done.

I move the trimmer to the left and pull it downward again, slower. Then again, slower still, agonizingly, achingly slowly.

"Ohhh, God, Steve, I want you to fuck me. I want your big fat cock inside me." I look up; she's gritting her teeth, almost like she is angry.

She's almost totally clean, now, but I shave her again for good measure.

I pull the trimmer away, admiring my handiwork. Her breathing is deep and labored, like she's just run a race. There is no trace of pubic hair anywhere on her. My cock gets harder still, throbbing, almost painfully.

"Are you wet? Is your pussy nice and wet for me?"

"FUCK yes. Oh my God - you HAVE to fuck me right now," she says, in a lusty, husky voice that I've never heard from her before.

I flip the trimmer off and fling it to the nightstand. I leap onto the bed. She squeezes me between her legs, pulling me to her.

I enter her easily; it's bare skin to bare skin. Watching myself penetrate her without any hair in the way makes it look ten times hotter. And dirtier.

"Uhhhh," she grunts. "I love your cock...I love your fucking cock so much."

I pump it into her, hard and fast. I'm standing on my knees, leaning over her, her legs pinned to my sides. We must be quite a sight, as naked as the day we were born, our bodies wrapped up tightly in a little package, fucking each other's eyeballs out.

"Your pussy is so nice and fucking hot," I say.

"That's 'cause I want you," she says.

She looks up at me. "Are you gonna videotape us one day," she asks.

I hear her, but it registers very slowly: "Viiiiiiiiiiid-eeeeeeeee-oooooooooo-taaaaaaaape......."
It's like Robin Williams says: God gave men a penis and a brain, but only enough blood to run one at a time.

I realize what she is saying now. She's going for Girlfriend Of The Year, isn't she?

"You want me to videotape us?" I say, pushing my cock deeply into her, slower now. "You want a tape of us fucking?"

"Uh-huh," she says. "I want to watch you fucking me with your big fat cock."

"OK, baby," I say. It's about all I can manage.

I lean back a little and feel myself hitting a different spot. "OHHHH!" she cries. "Don't stop! Don't fucking stop!!"

I have all I can do to keep from orgasming. I can feel the climax building, and in desperation I grab my scrotum and pull down slightly. I may have bought myself a minute.

"Oh God I am gonna come," she says. "Oh SHIT! Oh God please keep fucking me..."

I look at her. Her nipples are at full attention; she grips my forearms with trembling hands, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

She presses her knees more tightly against my sides; I can feel their every tremble as she rides the orgasm out.

Without another word, she reaches down to the part of my shaft that is not inside her and rubs slowly, languidly, up and down. I pull out slightly; she rubs faster.

I am crazy with lust. I almost can't see; it's like there are bright lights in my eyes.

"Do you want me to blow a huge fucking load on you?" I say.

"I want your fucking cum all over me," she says.

I can't stand it any more. I pull out of her and rub my cock against her smooth pussy, spraying hot jizz all over her stomach.

She grabs a handful of the comforter and lays it over the thick white puddle on her abdomen.

Great. Looks like more laundry tonight!

She pulls me on top of her, so that we are both laying flat. She puts her hands on my back, tracing her fingertips in lazy circles, like ice skates. She stares at me for a long time. I stare back.

At this moment, I realize why I didn't want to be with Cherise. I realize why my gut was telling me to stay true to Stephanie. I am happy when I am with her, and it's a happy that I will never, ever find with someone I don't give a shit about.

She puts a finger between my shoulder blades and runs it down my spine, lightly, barely touching my skin. I'm covered in gooseflesh.

She puts her finger between my shoulder blades and runs it down my back again, this time stopping at the small of my back and turning sharply to my left.

Weird, I think.

Between the shoulder blades again. She makes a big circle. Her eyes are fixed on me, big and curious. She's.....reading me.

Wait a minute. Is she.....SPELLING something on my back?

Her finger goes to my right shoulder blade, then diagonally down to my waist, then diagonally back up to my other shoulder blade.

Yeah, she's spelling something, all right. She doesn't have to finish.

"I love you too," I say.

NOMINATE Stevo!!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

The countdown is on!!!!

I was hoping to reach 100,000 hits by January 1, but I guess this isn't too bad. I am a little over 1,000 hits away from 100k now, and I got this idea for a game...

Send me your guess for what day and time my counter will go to 100,000. Whoever is closest wins a Gmail account! (and you can't even cheat by using Google for this one!)

I need your responses by midnight tonight, so e-mail them to me using the link on the right sidebar. You probably want to keep your guesses confidential, so dropping a comment with your guess might not be a good idea.

Good luck!

He says, she says, volume IV

Dear Steve and Ari:

I have this friend. I find her extremely attractive, but I don't want to try and initiate something and then lose out on her company. We get along really well and always have entertaining conversations. On the other hand, it's kind of hard to tell what she's feeling because, as a rule, she's friendly with everybody.

To complicate things, she's 34 and I'm 18, which is a revelation for everybody who meets her. The first time I met her my guess was 24. To give the situation some context, we're both in the same film program at a technical school. She comes over and hangs out at my place with a few of my other buddies after the shoots.

Based on my best judgement (that is, probably not great), I have the best chances out of all of us. So, like I said, I really enjoy her friendship, but I would like to give dating a shot. How to ease into that? Suggestions?-Justin

**********
Ari says:

Justin,

she's 34 and you're 18. I see. And what are you hoping for with a person almost 2x your age? If you want a relationship, I'd say it looks grim. I mean, your pop culture references are all off, you can't go out drinking with her... not a good sign. I think in the end the large berth of age difference will doom you both. If you want to be her friend with benefits, I say the odds here are TOTALLY in your favor. As a 32 year old woman, I'd love {!!!} to play with an 18 year old. I'm also willing to bet she'd be one of the best lovers you've had and vice versa.

Keep in mind too that you are together a lot because of school - you will have to see her a lot still, try not to embarrass yourself or create awkwardness that is insurmountable. I'd suggest you strive for a physical friendship.

**********
Steve says:

Justin,

First off, your goal here is not to "ease into" anything. You are much younger than this girl, and if you want her to think of you as an equal, you're going to have to show an inordinate amount of confidence. Abandon all pretense, and go for it with guns blazing - or don't go for it at all.

Ask her out. Invite her to dinner, or offer to cook her something at your house. Ask her to go someplace specific, with you, so she knows you aren't just asking her to hang out with the gang.

Pay extra attention to how you talk to her. Never say "um", "er", "uh", and so on. Be polished.

Be assertive. Be decisive. Take control of the situation, whether it's a blowout on the highway at 60 MPH, or the group arguing about where to go for donuts at 3:00am. When you take charge, she'll notice. Believe me. There is a chance she thinks of you as nothing more than a snot-nosed kid, and it's your job to erase that.

One other thing - and you mentioned this yourself - be sure this is what you want, because if it doesn't work out, you might not have her as a friend anymore. Personally, I'd go for it.

Aftermath

Congratulations to Mega for being the first one to nail yesterday's title quote ("My Lovin' (Never gonna get it)" by En Vogue).

**********

What the fuck, I think. I'm doing it.

I'm spending way too much time thinking about this. I'll just leave the party with her, and let nature run its course. I'll just let the sexual Feng Shui take over, and see where it leads me.

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

I don't like the way I sound. I seem...weak. I'm going through the motions. I asked her, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, because that is what Steve does. I had about as much enthusiasm as you had when you got your driver's license photo taken.

I don't want to be with Cherise. I don't want to take her home and fuck her brains out. Yeah, it would feel good. REALLY good. But I don't WANT to.

Holy shit. Am I in love?

A meaty hand falls heavily on my shoulder. "HEY!" a gruff voice says.

I turn around. It's Kevin. His face is carved into an angry scowl.

"Don't leave the game like that. If you're off the phone, come back and sit down!"

"Easy killer!" I smile. "I was just-"

Cherise's phone rings. She flips it open. "Hellooo," she purrs. "Heyyy! Happy new year, girl!"

She points to the phone. "It's mah sister!" she whispers.

Kevin pulls me back to the table by the arm. The Feng Shui gods have spoken.

I lose about 5 hands in a row. "The ball's dropping!" someone says.

We gather around the TV and count down to midnight. Just as we get to zero, and a cheer fills the room, my phone rings.

It's Steph.

There's a twinge in my stomach. I'm happy!

Of course she called. Of course she cooled off. How could I have seriously thought otherwise? Steph and I like each other; we are smart people. Whatever the problem is, we can work it out. As long as we are talking, everything will be ok.

I leave the room and flip my phone open. "Hello?"

"Hi."

"Hi, Steph. Happy new year!"

"Happy new year. Am I the first person you're talking to this year?"

"Yep! How about you?"

"Yes, the very first one."

"Cool."

"Honey, I am so sorry," she says. Her voice is trembling.

"Me too."

"I didn't mean to yell at you that way. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings."

"Me too. I didn't mean to criticize Meg. Or Heidi."

She sniffles. "I'll talk to Meg. I'll tell her not to talk to Heidi anymore about us."

"OK," I say. "I know Meg is your best friend, and you guys discuss that stuff. I know I have to understand that."

"All right," she says. "What are we doing? We're apart on new year's eve! I can't believe we're not together!"

"I know. Can I see you tomorrow?"

"Sure! I'll come back in the morning."

**********

January 1, 2005.

9:35am. I roll over and look at the clock. My stomach is a churning, gurgling mess. It seems like, if I turn my body the wrong way, every chicken finger and frito I gobbled down last night will come blasting out of me like a semi-digested laser beam.

I stretch, sit up, and look at the foot of the bed.

Steph is sitting there.

I've been meaning to give Steph a key to my house, but I haven't done it yet. However, she knows the code to my garage-door opener, and knows where the spare key is hidden in the garage, so she can get in if she has to.

I jump a little. It's a pleasant feeling waking up and seeing someone you care about sitting on your bed; it's like receiving a present even though it's not Christmas or your birthday.

"Heyyy!" I say.

"Hey, hon!" She hugs me.

"Happy new year!" I say.

"Happy new year to you, too!"

"It's 9:30! How long have you been sitting there? When did you leave your mom's house?"

"I just got here," she says. "I left at 6."

"SIX?"

"You forget I'm in law school. Six o'clock is like sleeping in for me."

Her smile fades, and she studies my face, squinting.

What, do I have a snot hanging out?

"When did you get an earring?" she asks.

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

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

**********

Friday, December 31.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9:00.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cherise is sitting there, on the couch.

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

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

"Hi, Cherise!"

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

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

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

"Oh, really? Great! For what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh-uh."

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

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

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

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

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

Trouble in Paradise

December 30, 2004. 8:45am.

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

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

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

"Steve?" she says.

"Hm?"

"I heard you had an interesting night."

"Oh! You were talking to me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11:30.

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

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

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

"I need to talk to you later."

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

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

"Do you need to talk now?"

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

"Yeah."

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

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

"What's wrong?" she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, good one! And nice delivery, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

"Oh, REALLY?"

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

"My HERO? I FOLLOW him AROUND?"

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

No, not EVERY bimbo. Only the blonde ones!

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

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

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

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

"You know what, Steve? Fuck you!"

"No, fuck you!"

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

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

She storms out the door and speeds off.

The results...

Thanks to everyone who voted!

This was a landslide, by the way...

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

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

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

3. (tie) "Acing our exams"

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

6. "Over the hills and fart away"

7. "That was quick..."

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

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

10. "Forty-three minutes after nine"

Cheesiness has its advantages

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

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

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

"The photo album?"

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

"She didn't. I scanned them."

"With WHAT?"

"Her scanner!"

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

"I fixed it."

"You FIXED it? How?"

"I reinstalled it. It was easy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I roll over and reach for the light switch.

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

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

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

**********

Monday, December 27.

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

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

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

There's a note attached:

Sorry I broke your other one.

Merry Christmas,
Landon

I'm actually beginning to like that guy.