The office follies, part 1

Wednesday. 1:00. My phone rings. The number does not look familiar.

"This is Steve."

"Hey, Steve, it's Stephanie!"

How the fuck did she get this number? Think, think.

I seem to recall giving her my business card at one point. I always carry 9 or 10 cards in my wallet, and I write my cell phone number on a few of them, for when I'm giving them out for personal use.

"Hey, Steph!" To be honest, with her having a boyfriend and with her blowing me the first night, I didn't expect to hear from her again.

I love leaving a girl's house and not asking her for her number, or where she works. I love not knowing her last name or where she's from. I love the feeling of power, the feeling of not being some weakling who is begging to see the girl again. That's just what happened with Stephanie. I figured there was not much chance of getting with her long-term, so I just said my goodbyes and left.

"How's your week going, Steve?"

"OK, yours?"

"Good! I can't see out of one eye, though."

I laugh. "Yeah, sorry about that."

"That STINGS, you know. I hope you appreciate it!"

"Guess I better lay off the hot sauce, eh?"

She chuckles. "I am so crazy with studying. I have an exam on Friday." Stephanie is a second-year law student.

"What kind of exam?"

"Contract law. Boring stuff."

"Yikes," I say.

"Hey listen," she says. "You, ahhhm, you kinda, errrr, left something here the other night."

What could I have left there? I have my wallet, and my keys. It couldn't be anything important.

"Like what?"

"Well, it's, small, and square, and....I guess it fell outta your pocket..."

Holy shit! My condom!

I always carry one with me wherever I go. But when she was blowing me, my pants were down, completely off, actually, and it must have fallen out.

"Oops!" I say.

"Oops is right!" she replies.

"Hey, I just want you to know, I always carry one of those. I wasn't being presumptuous."

"Of course not! You didn't know you were going to meet me when you left home," she says.

"True."

"So, do you need this back," she chuckles.

"Nah, that one's used, anyway," I say.

"WHAT?!"

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA," I laugh.

"Ahhh!" she says. "Hey listen, Steve, while I have you..."

"Hm?" Is she going to ask me out?

"What are you doing this weekend?"

"Nothing much. Why?"

"God, I am gonna need to decompress after this exam."

"You wanna have a drink on Friday night?"

"I wanna go see Shark Tale!" She says.

I really hate going to movies with girls. If you're on a date, it's because you like each other and want to get to know each other better. And exactly how the HELL are you going to do that sitting in the dark? Now, of course, some interesting things can happen with the lights out, but unless it's some turkey of a film that no one cares about, or the movie is in its 15th week of release, there's gonna be seven teenage kids three feet away from you chomping popcorn, so your chances of getting anywhere are slim.

Plus, I love to comment on movies as I am watching. When Paulie and I get going, we are just as funny as MST 3000.

If I actually go to a theater and have to sit through a movie, quietly, it's going to be for something that looks really special. I went to all the Lord of the Rings movies on the day they came out, and I also saw The Passion of the Christ, (AKA The Jesus Ass-kicking Movie). These were major motion picture events. You'll never catch me at Bad Boys II or Pirates of the Carribean. It's just not worth it to me, timewise or moneywise.

"How 'bout dinner?" I say.

"How 'bout not?" she says. "I REALLY want to see it!!"

She hasn't made a good case, but to keep fighting it now would make me look petty. I think I will defer to her wishes, at least this time.

"Well, seeing that it's you," I say.

"Cool!"

Bonnie sticks her head in my office. "Steve, Fred McCrory is on line 6. He doesn't sound happy."

My office phone rings. "Who is that," I say.

Bonnie shrugs. "I didn't transfer it to you."

DAMMIT! I have very strict instructions not to transfer calls to me directly. "Bonnie, answer that and find out who transferred it," I snap.

She heads back to her desk and picks up the phone. My phone rings again.

What the fuck?

"Hey, Steph, I gotta run."

"K. Call me before Friday so we can make plans!"

I pick up my office phone. "This is Steve."

"Steve, goddammit, this is Fred McCrory!"

Shit. That was the call Bonnie wanted to transfer to me.

I didn't want to talk to Fred yet. I like to prepare for a nasty phone call by knowing all possible information. Now I'm stuck.

"Fred, what can I do for you?" I never ask how someone is when they are angry. We already know the answer, don't we: "I'm LOUSY!" Why give them a chance to say it?

"Steve, what the HELL are you guys doing up there? I have $3000 in reimbursements that have yet to be paid! I got bills to pay!" Fred says. Fred is our naitonal sales manager. Total head case.

"What the hell are we DOING?" I say, sarcastically.

"Steve, I-"

"Fred, we are running those through accounting to make sure there's backup on everything. It slows it down by a day or so. "

"When were you planning on telling me this? That's a lot of money, Steve!"

"What did Tim say when you called him about this?" Tim handles most of our accounts payables. This is an old trick, guys. I'm hoping he didn't call Tim first. Psychos like this guy usually go over people's heads.

"His damn voice mail is on all the time. He never answers his phone. I WANT my damn money!"

"CALL TIM, FRED." I say, firmly.

"You better get your act together up there! I don't know what the hell is going on-"

Dom is standing in the doorway. He is pale and frightened-looking. I pull the receiver away from my ear and look up at him.

"Lila just quit," he says.

Cliffhanger conclusion, rain-delayed edition

I keep forgetting to mention this, and I never say this kind of crap, but I just want to say "rest in peace" to Rodney Dangerfield, who was my favorite comedian growing up.

I laughed a lot at what Rodney said as he was going into the hospital: "If the surgery goes well, I'll be out in a week and a half. And if it doesn't go well, I'll be out in an HOUR and a half."

**********

This can't be good.

"What did you need to talk to me about?" I say.

Lila closes the door and sits down.

Ahhhh, shit. She's quitting.

"Steve, I just spent an hour on the extra commission report. It was a total mess!"

If a customer goes to one of our agents and asks for advice on who he should finance a car with, or if we reject him for a policy and he asks for a referral to another insurer, we have partner companies that we work with, and our agents get commissions for the referrals. Problem is, the reports come in every month from several different places, and for bookkeeping purposes we like to consolidate them all into one file. But the reports keeps getting longer and the consolidation job keeps getting harder.

"I know, Lila, IT [information technology] is working on it-"

"Those guys have been working on this since the summer!" She says. "It's totally bad, Steve! They have no idea what I'm going through on this."

"Let me check and see how they are doing," I say.

"Haven't you BEEN checking on this?"

OK, are we getting into a pissing contest here?

"I don't know, Lila. Have you been asking?"

"So I have to ASK you, otherwise it won't get done?"

"Of course not. But after I assign something I can't chase after them. If there's a problem I need you to let me know."

"How can that happen, Steve?"

"How can it happen?"

"How can you just assign something and forget it? It just got totally forgotten! I thought you were supposed to be this great manager, and the whole project just went nowhere."

"Like I said, Lila..."

"But HOW can it happen? I am wasting so much time on that report! It's so frustrating! I'm working on this thing like an idiot, and no one was even fixing it! No one even gives a shit! And now it will probably take another month before they're done and I'll be dealing with all this SHIT again next month."

"Lila. Will you let me call them and check on it? Please? Before you jump to any conclusions?"

"You just don't care, do you? You totally don't care if it takes me 5 hours to do that report! You don't give a shit! DO YOU?"

I look at her. She looks tired. Her face is hard, angry. She seems....older, somehow. Part of her youthful carefree-ness is gone. I wonder if it will ever come back.

"Lila, I'll have Bonnie check on it and get back to you. If it's delayed I'll have them prioritize it. OK?"

"Do whatever you want, Steve." She storms off.

**********

4:42pm. My phone rings. It's dad.

"Steve, I want you and Lila to come down here for dinner this Friday night. I'm having the whole family over."

Impeccable timing, Frank.

"I've got plans, dad."

Explaining the Lila situation to my whole family... what a fucking picnic that's going to be. How does this sound:

Well, you see guys, I like fucking. A lot. But if I fuck the same girl for too long, I start getting all fidgety, like I have a load of itching powder down my boxer shorts. So I went out and got a hummer from some hottie, and I'm pretty sure Lila didn't find out about it, but she's dumping me anyway....

I think it needs some work.

....aaaaaand, we're back!

So much for THAT experiment...

I really believe that template was going to work. I was planning on tweaking the colors and adding a third column, and I think we would have been there.

BUUUUT.......

...then I found out that all the line breaks were gone from my archives, and they were basically unreadable.

Back to the drawing board....and, until then, enjoy my old template!!

OK, this really sucks

On my old blog, I used to be able to hit the "ENTER" key once and it would make a line break. Now, I have to hit it twice.



Not only is this a major pain in the ass; it has also removed all the very nice line breaks from my past posts, as the lovely TL has pointed out....


If I don't find a solution before tomorrow morning, it's back to the old template for me.....

Let's check in with our sideline reporter, Bonnie Bernstein

Yum.

Yep, she's still hot.

another satisfied customer angry mob

Damn! You guys hate this template, don't you?

I am wondering if it is not coming up right on certain browsers. It looks neat and organized on mine, but for people who have different screen resolutions and so on, it might look "broken".


You guys are the ones who are going to have to read this, so I might just change it back. I have to let you know, though, there are certain things I hate about my old template:


-Those little "box/arrow" things next to the titles;
-the small amount of space in the middle for text;
-the color scheme that every other blog in the world seems to be using;
-The sloppiness of the sidebar


etc.


I suppose I could fix some of that stuff without changing the template, but I just got bored and wanted to try something new.

This is a test

I just busted my ass setting up this new template, and I am not 100% sure I like it....


You guys should drop a comment and let me know how you like it. For example, does it look good on your browser, and so on.


Can't wait to hear your feedback....


2:26am

I tweaked the font size and line height a little, but initial feedback is bad.


I just hate that old template...

Stevo goes photoblogging...

Francis Albert Sinatra

How cool is this?

Here is one of my favorite pictures of all time. I love Frank's attitude in this photo. Such a cocky, conceited Guinea.

My hero.

More pix to come, hopefully.

Rain, rain, go away...

Well, the Sox didn't lose, but they didn't win. So I will post, but not about what you want me to.

Let's do this again tonight...cheer for the Red Sox, and if they win I will post tomorrow morning instead of Monday! I am such a bastard, aren't I...

Shin-barking at 6:47

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing!!!

I turn over. It's 6:47am.

Shit! I overslept!

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing!!!

When I first wake up in the morning, my body reboots like a computer: Nothing works for 2 or 3 minutes, and when you finally CAN initiate any kind of meaningful activity, things start slowly, as if moving in wet cement.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing!!!

I grope to my right and grab my cell phone off the nightstand. It's off.

"RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing!!!"

Shit! It's my home phone!

I only have one land line in my whole house, believe it or not. There are jacks everywhere, but I use my cell phone for regular calls almost all the time. I don't spend much time on the telephone anyway, though.

I run downstairs.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing!!!

Why isn't the answering machine picking up?

I grab the phone and hit the "talk" button. "Hel-"

The receiver slips out of my hand and flies across the room.

I run over to get it and whack my shin on the coffee table. "OWW!" I yell. I fall to the floor.

I really hope I don't have to do anything hard today. Like zip my fly.

I crawl to the phone and put it to my ear. "Hello?"

"My God! What's going on over there?" A woman's voice asks. It's a pretty voice, sweet and melodic. She sounds beautiful. But my experience is, girls with "nice voices" sometimes turn out to look like truck drivers.

She sounds familiar. But you guys know my rule: I never ask who it is. It's too much fun to figure it out.

"Hopefully, you're calling to tell me I won something," I say.

"HeHeHeHeHe!" She has a hearty laugh, in which you can hear the H in every "ha". She sounds like a girl at a party who is having a really great time.

It's Christie. We broke up over a year ago.

"No, Steven. I actually wanted to call and offer you my condolences. I read about your mom in the paper."

"I appreciate the call, Christie."

"So you DO know who this is!"

"How could I forget?"

"How did she die, Steven?"

Christie ALWAYS called me Steven. I don't think she ever called me Steve, not even once. She is one of these proper girls, who says "going to" instead of "gonna", and who pronounces the "t" in "exactly". She used to write down big words that I used so she could look them up later and memorize them.

But Christie liked to have fun. She was pretty fucking dirty, as I remember. Liked it in the ass. And she liked me to call her "bitch" and "slut" while I fucked her. But no matter how horny she got, she still always called me Steven. "Fuck me, Steven, FUCK me!" She used to say. Sometimes, when it got really crazy, she used to call me by my FULL name, first, middle and last. I'd be fucking away at her and thinking, What's next? My social security number?

"Steven? Steven? Are you there?"

Huh? WTF? Oh, yeah! I was daydreaming.

"Yeah, I'm here. Mom had a stroke."

"Oh, God, that's terrible, Steven. Are you ok?"

Yep, same heartless bastard as always. Ask my blog readers!

"Ya, I'm ok."

Christie is a corporate trainer. I met her while she was doing sexual harrassment training at my office. That training manual was the hottest thing I've ever read: "Hey, baby, let's do page 45!"

"Are you still doing that training thing?" I ask.

"Yes, and I love it. You?"

"I got promoted. Remember Ross?"

"UGH. Yes."

"I got his job."

"You're KIDDING! You're the BOSS?"

"Miracles never cease, I know."

"No. I'm very proud of you, Steven. I always knew you had great potential."

"Thanks."

"Oh. And I got married!" she shreiks.

"WHAT?"

"Yeah! I'm so excited," she says.

"Who'd you marry?"

"No one you know," she says.

"Well, it's good to talk to you," I say.

"I'm doing training all week right down the street from you," she says. "We should have lunch."

"Definitely," I say, without thinking.

Is she flirting with me?

**********

Monday morning, 8:30. Dom walks into my office.

"Soooo?" he says softly, smiling at me.

"So what?" I say.

"Don't you kiss and tell," he says. "Come on, what happened with Stephanie?!"

"Not much, man, nothing."

There is NO fucking way I am spilling the beans to Dom. I don't tell anyone when I get something from a girl. Once you let someone know that, you are at his mercy. He can tell anyone, and next thing you know, it gets back to her, and you are shut off.

"I saw the way she was looking at you, Steve. You got something!"

"Nope."

"Well, let me tell you, Megan is a horny girl," he says.

"Oh yeah? Nail her?"

"Yeah! She was WILD. She sucked my dick," he smiles, nodding slowly, as if he were the only guy in the world who's ever had a blow job.

"Most impressive."

"She likes porn, so we put on some porn, and..."

Lila walks into the office. "Dom, fax for you," she says, handing him a small stack of papers. She glares at me. I think she heard what Dom said.

"Morning," I say. She turns and storms out.

"Wonder what crawled up HER ass," Dom says.

"Not sure."

"So did you at least get a blowjob?" Dom says.

"No."

"Handjob?"

"No."

"Kiss her goodnight?"

"Nope."

"So you just dropped her off at home and left?"

Ya, that's right. Right after blowing a load in her eye. I'm going for her nose next time, then I'll work on the ears.

"Yes."

"What happened, Steve? I think maybe you need a few lessons. That looked very good for you. I thought you were better with the girls than that."

He's smiling. He's breaking my balls. He wants me to tell him what happened, so he's trying to bruise my ego.

"I don't feel like getting a tracking device implanted in my ass. The guy's FBI, remember?"

This is just a cop-out. I knew a guy years ago who was in the FBI, and he said it was very boring work, mostly paperwork and meetings. Not all the cool shit you see on The X Files. And certainly nothing to be afraid of.

"Oh, yeah," he says.

Lila is back in my doorway. She looks horrible. She is pale; there are bags under her eyes and she appears unusually thin.

"Steve, I need to speak to you," she says.

The fallout begins

"I just got blown by someone else," I think, driving home after midnight.

It's shock, really, more than anything else. My lack of guilt is both liberating and terrifying.

4:46am. DING-dong, DING dong, ding-dong, DING-dong, goes my doorbell (Westminster chimes).

Who the FUCK could this be, I think, and as I walk downstairs in my boxers, I already know. I get to the front door and open it.

Lila stands there.

She is a mess. Her hair is a tangled morass, and her mascara is streaming down her face in long black streaks, like the cover of the "Live Through This" album.

"I fucking hate you," she says.

"What-"

"I FUCKING HATE YOU!" she screams. Holy shit, she is out of control.

"I hope you fucking die, Steve, I hope you fucking die a slow, painful death."

"Baby, I know you're upset,"

"No, you DON'T know anything!" she says. "All you do is hurt me! All you do is lead me on and make me think you care about me and then you dick me over every fucking time and I HATE it! I fucking HATE you!"

"Don't say that, Lila." I go to hug her. She hits me in the chest.

SHIT! That hurt!

"Why do you hate me? Because I went out for a beer with a friend? Because I have a fucking LIFE?" I say.

"Fuck you, Steve!"

"You're high, aren't you?" She doesn't really seem high, but it seems like a good thing to ask. And she was definitely high earlier.

"FUCK YOU!" Her face is twisted into an evil snarl. I took this beautiful girl and I made her ugly. What is wrong with me?

"Lila, come inside and sleep until you sober up. We'll talk in the morning. I'll sleep on the couch. You can have my bed."

"I'm NOT high! Fuck you, you asshole! I never wanna see your fucking face again!" She throws a wild punch and hits my arm. She turns and storms off towards her car.

So I suppose one last screw is out of the question?

I watch as she drives off. Actually, she seems to be driving pretty normally, so I don't go after her.

**********

Saturday morning, around 11. Lila's house.

"Hi, Steve." It's Sophie. She doesn't look happy.

"She here?"

"Come back later, Steve," she says, shaking her head, looking disappointed.

"Sophie, I need to talk to her now."

"Not a good idea, Steve."

I brush her aside and go to Lila's room.

She's sitting up in bed, staring out her window. She's still wearing what she had on last night.

"Baby, are you ok?"

"No."

"We have to talk," I say.

"I can't do this anymore, Steve. I never should have gotten back together with you," she says. "We want different things, we're different people...."

I pause. "I know," I say.

"I don't want to be mad at you," she says. "I don't want to hate you. I love you too much. It's not good for me to love somebody that much. I'm just gonna get hurt. I want you to be happy and I know you can't be happy with me, so-"

"You have to know that I love you," I say. "Please believe me, I love you so much."

"I know," she says. She's not looking at me. She's deliberately avoiding eye contact.

I don't want to "convince" her to do things my way anymore, as far as not getting serious. That really would bother me. Sure, we're "serious" in that I'm telling her I love her, but she needs lots of attention, and if I can't give it to her, she freaks. It's instinctively making me push her away. I'm tired of lying to her, tired of hurting her. She deserves better than that, and she deserves someone better than me.

"Just go, Steve."

"I don't WANNA go."

"Please? I just wanna be alone right now."

"Can I call you later?"

She doesn't answer.

I'm guessing that's a no.

As I walk out the door, I can hear her sobs.

It's all fun and games until someone loses (gets cum in) her eye

"Do you have a girlfriend," Stephanie says.

I nod my head yes. "It's going badly right now," I say.

"Me too," she says.

"Does he keep pulling the car over to arrest people?" I ask.

"I WISH," she says. "That would mean he was home!"

"Never around, huh?"

She shakes her head. "He bought me a CD for Christmas and I didn't get it until Valentine's day," she says.

"Shit!"

"I know!" she says.

"Well, that all depends," I say. "If it was Zam Phyr, master of the pan flute, that might be a good thing!"

She laughs. "No! It was "Wish You Were Here"."

"Pink Floyd?" I say.

"Yeah! I love them!"

"Me too!" I say. "So he only bought you a CD for Christmas?"

"He's cheap."

We talk nonstop for the next half hour. Mercifully, Heidi is almost totally removed from the conversation, but she shifts her gaze back and forth between Stephanie and me as we talk, as if she is watching a tennis match.

"Woooooooow," Heidi says, finally. "You guys are really hitting it off! It's too bad you're taken, Steph!"

Stephanie shoots her an annoyed glance.

All the conversations wind down briefly and the table is quiet for a few seconds.

"DO YOU LIKE MEATBALLS?!" Heidi says to me. We all burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry, I hate it when it's all quiet like that," she says.

Stephanie gets up and walks towards the ladies' room.

I wait about two minutes, then jump slightly, as if my phone is going off. I pull it from the holster and look at the readout screen. "Excuse me," I say, and walk towards the back of the bar.

It's about 10 after 10. I figure now would be a good time to check my voice mail. My phone is off, so it wasn't really ringing, of course.

I have six messages:

1. Hangup. Caller ID blocked.
2. Lila: "Steve, please call me."
3. Hangup. Caller ID blocked.
4. Hangup. Caller ID blocked.
5. Lila [sounding high]: "Steeeeeeve, you better fucking call me, shitheeeeeeaaad....."
6. Lila [still high]: "Stevie, Stevie the asshole, who doesn't call his girlfrieeeeeend...."

I stop about 20 feet from the ladies room and start deleting the messages.

The ladies' room door opens. Stephanie is walking out. I pretend not to notice her right away: No need to look like a stalker, now.

I put my phone away and look at her, smiling.

"Finally got away, huh? Tired of talking about Italian food?" she says.

"I'm beginning to wish I was Polish," I say, laughing.

"I hear ya," she says.

"Let's go for a walk," I say.

She nods her head once, slowly, as if she knew this was coming. She follows me out the front door and onto the sidewalk.

We walk about 30 feet to a corner. I turn to face her.

She kisses me.

It's nice having our bodies so close together, the way she presses herself against me and holds my face in her hands while we kiss.

Our lips separate. "You're a good kisser," I say. Pretty much standard stuff here, guys. You almost have to say it; it's like sending a thank-you note after a job interview.

"Mmmmmm, you too," she says, smiling.

"I thought we were walking," I say.

"Oh, ok, I see how you are," she says, and takes my hand. We walk for a while, towards the parking lot where my car is.

She takes a deep breath through her nose. "I'm really tired," she says.

That's my cue. "You want a ride home," I say.

She nods. She's already dialing her phone. "Meg. Steph. Steve's giving me a ride home. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

I dial Dom's number. He answers.

"Dom, it's Steve. I'm giving Stephanie a ride home."

"You bastard," he says. "You are fucking amazing." His voice is even quieter than usual, but I can hear the smile just the same. "I want details," he says.

"Bye, Dom." click.

We're on the way home, and I suddenly burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" Stephanie says.

"I'm just imagining Dom and Megan trying to talk, and Heidi interrupting them."

"HAHAHAHAHAHA! 'Are you passionate, Dom?' she says, mockingly. 'You seem really passionate!' " We have a good laugh over that one.

"You remember that Brady Bunch episode where Greg is on a date, and Bobby is in the back seat?"

"Oh my God! Yes!!!" she says.

"Heidi is Bobby!!!" I say. She is nodding and laughing hysterically.

Her face is bright red. "Ohhh, my God. You are too funny," she says.

We get to her apartment. I follow her inside; there is no invitation. I just kind of walk behind her and wait for her body language to tell me what she wants. She holds the door open for me, so it is a no-brainer.

"I have to check my e-mail," she says. She turns on her laptop and clicks her mouse a few times. Click-click-click, go her fingers on the keyboard.

The suspense is killing me. What's going to happen?

She walks up to me. We're standing almost nose to nose. Her eyes flicker up at me. Her face is truly beautiful, flawless and symmetrical. "So how long have you been with your girlfriend," she says.

I kiss her. She kisses back. This goes on for endless, wet, tongue-filled minutes.

We sit down on the couch without stopping. I move my hand up to touch her, and her hand bumps mine. She puts it on my crotch. I am hard as a rock.

"You have a BIG dick," she says, smiling.

"You see what you do to me?" I say.

She rubs my cock with her right hand, pulling my head closer with her left. I reach down, unbuckle my belt and open my pants. She stops kissing me and gets down on her knees.

She pulls my dick out through the hole in the front of my boxers.

She starts out licking it just like a lollipop. Remember that, ladies. Some girls don't like the idea of having that big thing in their mouths, especially since, even if the guy can hold out, it's oozing and dribbling like crazy the whole time. I always tell girls to pretend it's a popsicle, or a lollipop. You don't have to deep-throat it to get the guy off.

But deep-throat it Stephanie does. I watch as the entire shaft disappears into her mouth. I can feel the back of her throat. Then she slides it in and out, and the rhythm of her sucking drives me absolutely wild.

"Fucking A, Steph," I whisper. "Ohhh, that feels so good."

She pulls it out and holds it near the base, licking it slowly, bottom to top. The lollipop again.

She puts it back into her mouth. Then she deep throats me again. It's lollipop, deep throat, lollipop, deep throat, until I am ready to explode.

"Are you gonna come?"

"Yeah."

She pulls it out of her mouth with a pop, and rubs it furiously. It's pointing right at her face. It's pointing right at her....

I explode with orgasm. It's a direct hit, right in her eye.

She doubles over, her hand pressed to her face. I'm dimly aware that I'm still coming. And she's still rubbing.

I grab my Van Heusen sweater and press it to her face. "Thanks," she says, wiping my spoo away. Shit! Shoulda given her HER shirt, I think. At least she doesn't have to wear it home.

"You are a horny boy, aren't you?" she says.

"You have NO idea."

Bad Company

Other than Paulie and a couple of others, I've never been very good at choosing friends.

In high school, I hung out with the popular crowd. Really!

I admit this, even though it is, apparently, now a matter of confession. None of the really fabulous characters you read about in People magazine will cop to being one of the cool kids. They always "didn't fit in" somehow.

Even Julia Roberts tried to say that she was only moderately popular in school. Yeah, right, Julia, I am sure you were a regular Bridget Jones. As mom used to say, "Bullshit! Next case!"

And Matt Lauer just takes the cake. This guy states very emphatically that he was "NOT one of the cool kids." Yes, quite.

We all knew Matt Lauer in high school. Matt Lauer was the captain of the debate team, or the tennis team, and strutted the hallways with penny loafers and no socks, and bright pink, alligator-logo'd shirts with the collars turned up, preppy-style. And he wore sweaters over his shoulders like a shawl, with the sleeves tied in front of his chest. "Not one of the cool kids," indeed.

Me, I was no Matt Lauer, but I somehow fell in with this crowd, and I believe it was for the entertainment value. I had no inhibitions at that time (and have few now). Put it in front of me, and I would eat it, or drink it. Dare me to take a shit on the principal's lawn? No problem. TP a cheating girlfriend's house? You got it.

I would go to parties and eat an entire large Sicilian-style pizza (the best kind, BTW), wash it down with a pitcher of beer, and then, to howls of disgust or amusement, puke up the entire semi-digested mess into a bathtub, and immediately start eating again. Think of me as a corpulent court jester.

But even within the popular crowd, there was a definite hierarchy. At 220 pounds, I had about as much chance of fucking a cheerleader as the geeks on the computer science team (yes, we had one, and yes, I was on it). Overall, being a "popular" kid was fun, but I didn't get anything out of it. Kind of like eating cotton candy, or listening to 7-foot tall motivational speakers with big teeth.

Perhaps my choice of friends betrays some deep-seated character flaw. Perhaps I hang out with people whom I know can ease my access to the nefarious substances or activities I crave. Perhaps that is why I went out drinking with Dom last weekend.

Yeah, guys, we are catching up - only a few days behind, now......

"I don't want you going out with Dom," Lila says.

"Why?"

"Dom is a player. Dom is always hitting on skanky fucking whores. I DON'T want you with him."

"Nice to know I'm trusted," I say.

"That's NOT what I am saying! Why would you want to go out with him? If you know what he's doing, and you aren't doing it, why would you go?"

Ummm, for the stimulating conversation?

"It's just beers, Lila, it's no big deal."

"I DON'T WANT YOU GOING WITH HIM!!" she screams.

"JESUS, Lila! Take it easy!"

"And I HATE how your phone is always off at night. I can never reach you! You know I try to call you every night, and you never have your phone on!"

"Yeah, well I tend to sleep at night....."

"Yeah, right, Steve, you go to bed at all hours. You just don't want to talk to me!"

"OK, Lila, you're a little upset now, so why don't you call me back when you're feeling better."

"NO!"

"OK, if you insist, DON'T call me back later."

"No, Steve, I am so tired of you just assuming I'm going to be there for you all the time. You fucking treat me like shit and I HATE it!"

"How do I treat you like shit?"

"You were all lovey-dovey, and 'I love you', and I really thought you meant it, and now you're back to what you were doing before! I waited so long for you and you made me think you changed but you didn't!" her voice is breaking.

"Lila, I DO love you, baby. I was clingy for a while because of everything that was going on, but you need to understand that's not me, usually. But it doesn't mean I don't care. Because I do care very, very much."

"Well if it's not you, then I don't know if I can do this anymore," she sniffles. "I NEED you with me, I NEED you around a lot. I don't want to be away from you - I love you too much."

"Can we please talk about this tomorrow?"

"No. Tonight."

"I'm going out tonight."

"Goodbye, Steve." Click.

**********

Julian's is a place that I would never go on my own. It's one of these fantastic, popular, trendy places that is really just your run-of-the-mill bar, but because everyone is talking about it, it costs twice as much to drink there.

Dom took me to lunch on Friday and told me he admired me very much, and that he thought I was doing a good job. He offered to work on a few extra projects if I needed him to. He also asked me if I was interested in having a beer with him that night. I am sure he has got something up his sleeve, or is just kissing ass, but he does good work, and I'd rather be friendly with him than adversarial.

Besides, if you are looking to get laid, the best thing you can do is hang out with someone who is successful with the opposite sex. You automatically look more credible when you appear to be on equal footing with a studly guy, or a hot chick.

Dom and I have a beer, and I go to the back of the bar to return a phone call. When I come back, he is talking to a five-foot-ten, willowy blonde.

"Here he is now," Dom says, in his silky-smooth voice. He puts one hand around my bicep, another on my shoulder. "This guy is the youngest district manager in the history of the company," he says.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I say. We all laugh.

"Megan, this is Steve, Steve, Megan," Dom says. Megan shakes my hand. Her hand is limp and flaccid; it's like I'm shaking a silk tie.

I attempt to let go, and Megan pulls my hand closer, inspecting my fingertips. "OH my god. LOOK at your nails!" she says. "Do you get manicures?"

"No!" I say.

"Your nails are PERFECT! It looks like you get manicures!"

No, but I do give facials, if you're interested....

Dom goes back to Megan; I go back to my beer. I overhear bits and pieces of their conversation. He is asking her where she likes to travel, and telling her that he used to live in California.

I hear her mention her girlfriends a couple of times. Is she here with someone?

Dom taps my shoulder. "We're gonna get a booth with Megan's two girlfriends," he says, smiling. "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

Megan disappears for a minute and returns with two girls. One of them is a knockout: Short, blonde, perfect teeth, flawless complexion. She has beautiful hazel eyes. The other one is a troll. I'm pretty sure she could've played a hobbitt on Lord of the Rings and pulled it off without special effects.

I don't mean to be crude. I'm not Brad Pitt either. But if you saw her, you'd know what I was saying. She's about 4'10", with greasy-looking black hair and big, thick glasses. She has a big chest, and a decent body, and she might actually do in a pinch if you were really horny at closing time. But I'm guessing this girl does not get much action before 1:45am.

"Now," Megan says, "Stephanie is taken, but Heidi is currently playing the field." They giggle.

We get one of these corner booths that seat 6 or 7. Megan goes in first, then Dom. Heidi stands there looking at me, expecting me to go next. This is an NFW.

If I go in next, I'll be in between Dom and Heidi. I'll be forced to listen to Heidi yak it up all night, and Dom will be of no help whatsoever, since he is in full get-laid mode.

I hold my hand out toward the booth, inviting Heidi to sit. She does. Then I sit, then Stephanie. Now I am in between Heidi and Stephanie, and there is no one on Stephanie's other side to compete for her time. Now, I can include her in our conversations and it will look like I am just being polite.

Heidi puts her hand on my thigh. And I don't mean a couple of inches above the knee, either: She's practically got a handful of balls! "So Steeeeee-eeeve!" she says loudly. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a district manager for an insurance company."

"I KNOW! They told me! That's very impressive!" she says.

OK, so why'd you ask, BITCH?

"So Steve, what's your last name?"

I tell her.

"Oooooooo! Is that Italian? That sounds VERY Italian!"

"Yep."

"Wow! I love Italian people. They're so passionate. Are you passionate, Steve?"

Excuse me, waitress? Could you do me a favor and put a bullet in the back of my head, please? Thanks.

"I don't know how to answer that question, Heidi."

"She gets nervous," Stephanie says.

"I get nervous!" Heidi says. "So, what do ya think of THESE two?" she asks, pointing a thumb at Dom and Megan. "They are SO gonna hook up tonight! They are inSEParable!"

She's talking really loudly. Dom turns and leers at her, clearly annoyed.

"There's that nervousness again," I say to Stephanie.

"Stephanie's boyfriend is a G-man," she says. She leans in close and lowers her voice to a whisper. "He's FBI," she says.

I look at Stephanie. She nods, smiling.

"I'm Jewish," Heidi says. "Do you have a problem dating a Jew? I used to only date Jewish guys, but they are SUCH assholes..."

"HEIDI!" Megan says.

"What?" Heidi says. She and Megan start arguing across the table.

Stephanie taps my shoulder. "Do you have a girlfriend," she asks.

Cheaters never prosper

Of the THREE people who entered this contest (that's right), only ONE did not cheat, so she is our winner: The D! Congrats and check your inbox for your gmail invitation!

The moral of the story: If you have to cheat, lie about it! Which, if you think about it, is very appropos to this blog...

The answers...

1. "Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in the springtime"
Minnie Ripperton, "Loving You"

2. "Come give me a hug if you're into gettin' rubbed"
50 Cent, "In Da Club"

3. "I wanted to be with you alone and talk about the weather"
Tears for Fears, "Head Over Heels"

4. "I may have made it rain; please forgive me \ My weakness caused you pain, and this song's my sorry"
Britney Spears, "Everytime"

5. "I hope you'll be alright, 'cause me and the boys will be playin' all night."
Kiss, "Beth"

6. "You don't always have to fuck her hard; in fact sometimes that's not right to do"
Tenacious D, "Fuck Her Gently"

7. "I'm happy, feelin' glad, I got sunshine, in a bag, I'm useless, but not for long, the future is comin' on"
Gorrillaz, "Clint Eastwood"

8. "Breathe, breathe in the air, don't be afraid to care"
Pink Floyd, "Breathe"

9. "Don't think that your charm and the fact that your arm is now around my neck / Will get you in my pants; I'll have to kick your ass and make you never forget"
Avril Lavigne, "Don't Tell Me"

10. "Thought you'd never miss me 'til I got a Fat City address / Non-stop talker, what a rocker!Blue-eyed murder in a side-swiped dress"
Van Halen, "Unchained"


**********

Stay tuned for today's post....

Steverino's Song Quote Contest, Volume I

From the useless trivia department, I used the phrase "I like" 34 times in yesterday's post.... just thought you'd like to know...

**********

The rules are pretty self-explanatory here....name the songs I am quoting, including artist and title, and e-mail your answers to me. The winner gets [drumroll please]...

A HIGHLY SOUGHT-AFTER GMAIL ACCOUNT!
*1 GB of mailbox space - all yours!
*Archive your emails and search them, Google-style!
*email attachments of up to 10MB
*all free!

We are going on the honor system here. NO CHEATING! (Yeah, right, you guys are gonna be Googling your asses off...)

HINT: Some of these songs have been discussed on my blog...



THE QUOTES:

1. "Stay with me while we grow old, and we will live each day in the springtime"

2. "Come give me a hug if you're into gettin' rubbed"

3. "I wanted to be with you alone and talk about the weather"

4. "I may have made it rain; please forgive me \ My weakness caused you pain, and this song's my sorry"

5. "I hope you'll be alright, 'cause me and the boys will be playin' all night."

6. "You don't always have to fuck her hard; in fact sometimes that's not right to do"

7. "I'm happy, feelin' glad, I got sunshine, in a bag, I'm useless, but not for long, the future is comin' on"

8. "Breathe, breathe in the air, don't be afraid to care"

9. "Don't think that your charm and the fact that your arm is now around my neck / Will get you in my pants; I'll have to kick your ass and make you never forget"

10. "Thought you'd never miss me 'til I got a Fat City address / Non-stop talker, what a rocker!Blue-eyed murder in a side-swiped dress"

Contest is over when I post on Monday morning. Have at it, guys!!!

That was quick...

First off, congrats to my pal Scur for nailing the Tenacious D quote!

I am thinking of having a song quote contest soon - the winner will get a Gmail invite. The rest of you will have to blow me for one...

Losing mom is starting to actually feel liberating. It's nice to know she's at peace and not getting into any trouble, or making trouble for anyone else. As mean as this may sound, problems followed mom nearly everywhere she went, and I like the idea that she is just memories now. I will miss her very much, but in some strange way, it's a relief, too.

Now that the shock and pain are subsiding, I don't feel like the clingy little wuss that I was last week. I don't want to sit around watching "Titanic" and "Shakespeare in Love" with Lila. I don't want to fall asleep next to her while Jay Leno interviews Jude Law. I'm not 65 years old. I want to go out and do something dangerous.

Yeah, I'm getting the urge to fuck again. I am starting to remember why I called myself an addict.

I am wondering why I could have ever thought for one minute that I was "cured". Work was crazy. Then mom got sick. For a while, my mind was on other things. I am reminded of the movie "A Clockwork Orange," in which they take a sociopathic criminal and "train" him to be a law-abiding citizen. It works - for about 15 minutes. He is a criminal, in the depths of his soul, and that is what wins out in the end.

I don't know why I like sex so much. I don't know why I need it. But I do. Am I going to start denying myself, for any reason? Doubt it.

Mom was only 58 years old. We don't know when we are going to go. I'm even more inclined now to abandon all pretense, to go out and have as much fun as possible. Now.

"So why don't you just fuck Lila," you are saying. You just don't get it, do you?

Getting off, as in having an orgasm, is cool. It's a release that every guy needs. But that need is not why I crave sex so much. Your body pretty much takes care of that release: If you build up too much pressure down there, you'll blow a load in your sleep. And a lot of us guys whack off constantly, too. But just getting your rocks off is only half of it.

I've said it before: I think of myself as an antisocial personality more than a sex addict. I like the hunt. I like the conquest. I thrive on it.

I like the ritual of dressing up before I go out. I like the idea of choosing just the right sweater, just the right slacks, and just the right shoes with just the right belt. I like looking a very certain way when I enter a room, walking a certain way, with a certain look on my face, then acting aloof when I get a compliment about my appearance, as if I got dressed in a dark room and threw on the first things I could find.

I like searching the room for the right girl to hit on. Sometimes, guys, it's not the hottest girl, or the 2nd-hottest girl, or the third. Sometimes it's the chick in the corner with the wind pants. Is it nice to fuck the sexiest girl in the room? Yes. Have I done it before? Yes. But every other guy at the party is going after her, too. I might fuck you, and I might not. But I'm DEFINITELY not waiting in line to find out.

I like approaching her. I like thinking of what I am going to say, coming up with a funny joke or a good segue into something we can talk about. That's after I say "hi", of course, because that's all I really say when I meet someone. I'm not about these dumbass lines that guys always use (Are you from Tennessee? Cause you're the only Ten-I-see!).

I like watching her look at me, sizing me up, squinting a little, thinking, who IS this guy? And I like watching her face, how it goes back to normal after she stops laughing at a joke, and how she bites her lip subconsciously as she thinks about fucking me for the first time. She probably hasn't entertained these thoughts before. Fucking me did not occur to her, until just now. But I've been thinking about it the whole time, and everything I have said and done has been leading her there, without her even knowing it.

I like walking away at the right time, not looking back, and wondering if I "stuck". I like looking surprised when she comes back over to me later, like I have been thinking about a million other things since I spoke to her last, and she had slipped my mind.

I like watching the look on her face when I ask her to go for a walk, or leave the party. I like how she struggles with the idea, maybe because she has a boyfriend, maybe because she feels like a slut, and I like how I pretend not to notice her conflict whatsoever.

I like the electricity of kissing her the first time, the unknowing anticipation of what her lips will feel like: Wet? Dry? Sloppy? Neat? I like grabbing for her tit, wondering if she will stop me. I like finding out that she won't.

I like watching her pull her shirt off, her bra going slightly askew, a crescent-moon of breast popping out underneath. I like the thought that, when she got dressed this morning, she had no idea she'd be pulling those clothes off in front of some guy she hadn't even met yet.

I like the way our breathing speeds up as we disrobe, hot and panting, brimming with desire. I like stopping for a minute before we are totally naked to kiss each other. And as we do, I like the heat of her naked boobs against my chest.

I like looking down and seeing my cock standing straight out, like I am saluting her. I like that moment of delicious anticipation in which her legs are open to me and I am just about to penetrate her, and I like the thought that I have really done it, I have found a way to get this girl to take her clothes off and give herself to me; I have found a way to get a girl to give me everything she has in this world. Again.

I like the rush of slipping it into a girl for the first time, feeling her wetness and heat. I like how the action builds to a crescendo, faster and hotter, and I like how she moans subconsciously as we fuck, and how it feels so good we can hardly take it.

I like pulling my cock out of a girl and blowing a load all over her stomach, or her tits, or her face. I like how she flinches a little, as if she didn't expect there to be that much, and I like how she says, "Mmmmmmm" after we are done, like she has just eaten a really good dessert.

Can I stop?

Do I want to?

"Go to therapy," you are saying. Yeah, sure. Go to someone like doc, who will fill me full of drugs, then talk to me endlessly about how it felt when mom whacked me in the ass with a metal soup ladle or slapped me across the face in front of my friends.

Yeah, he'll give me some drugs, and I will blow up like a balloon and lay around all day, fat and lazy, but I won't be thinking about sex. You could "cure" me by slicing my nuts off. Does that mean the treatment was justified? Does it mean it was the right thing to do?

This is who I am. This is how I want to live my life. And this is the way I am going to live it, until I feel differently.

Yeah, I do still love Lila. And I know I'll slip up eventually; I always do.

I wonder when it's going to happen.

" 'How's it goin'? That's the first thing I say to you...."

Can anyone ID the song quote in the title?

Paulie has been a good friend to me throughout the whole Mom ordeal, and I just realized that I have not blogged about him since It happened.

We've been best friends for almost 30 years, and as a "buddy", they don't come much truer than Paulie. It was kind of awkward, how he tried to console me, though.

I could tell he really wanted to come up with something to make me feel better. A day or two after it happened, at my dad's house, he threw his arm around me and said, "hey, after this blows over, you come stay with me for a couple days, awright?" He had to know I wouldn't do that. ONE day at his house is pushing it.

At the wake, he came up to me and said, "Hey! This weekend, you and me are gonna get TOTALLY fucking hammered. Right?"

The truth is, the prospect of slamming vodka-tonics until I puke didn't appeal to me, and didn't make me feel better. But I realized that he was trying to comfort me, and that DID help quite a bit.

We didn't make specific plans for the weekend. But guys usually don't. Or, at least I don't. As far as you girls are concerned, there are all sorts of rules involved, and if we have the audacity to ask you out on Thursday for a Friday date, I'm pretty sure it constitutes legal justification to kick us in the balls with a steel-toed stiletto.

For guys it's different. We don't make advance plans. Our minds don't work that way. I might call Paulie to go somewhere about an hour before I'm ready. If I think of it. Or, I might call him from my car, already on my way there. What happens if he says no? Then I play it by ear.

Paulie actually lives quite a distance away, so he calls me early in the day. We agree to meet at Shots, a sports bar, around 7:30.

Lila has been pouty ever since I told her where I am going. I ask her two or three times what is bothering her, and she keeps saying, "nothing." She is pissed because she's had me all to herself for weeks, and now I am going out with a friend instead of her on a Friday night. It's annyoing that she won't say it.

5:00. Lila is in my doorway, idly wiggling her foot on the carpet.

"You out?" I say.

She nods. She won't look at me.

"I'll see you tomorrow, ok?" I say.

"Not tonight?"

"No."

"Fine," she says, petulantly, and turns to leave. I let her go.

I guess I am supposed to chase after her, grab her by the arm, and make some grand gesture to prove my love. Hope she isn't holding her breath.

I really needed Lila to be close to me during my hour of need, and she was. But now that I am back into my routine, I need her the way she used to be. She used to be very respectful of my space; now I find the cap off my toothpaste, and my dishes put back in the wrong place, and the crinkly paper backing from her maxipads all over my bathroom floor.

I've come a long way. I'm a little less relationship-phobic now. But this isn't a soap opera or TV show where, in 22 minutes, a guy goes from fucking the babysitter to slapping on a tux and marrying his girlfriend in a sun-drenched, flowery gazebo somewhere. I still ain't marriage material, and might never be. Especially not with a chick who's barely old enough to vote.

Shots is packed tonight. The man-smell is everywhere, that hearty mixture of barbecue sauce, french fries, and spilled beer that makes the floor sticky. Giant plasma TV's broadcast baseball and football, each with its own set of testosterone-addled drunk revelers loudly celebrating each completed pass and called third strike.

When Paulie and I are hanging out, I can really relax and be myself. Pretty much nothing is off limits. It feels good to be able to fart without craning my head all around first to see who's watching, or marvel at how big Lindsay Lohan's tits are, and how nice it would be to fuck her and blow a giant load in her freckly face, without fear of being labelled a pervert. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Sometimes our uninhibitedness gets us into trouble. Once, years ago, Paulie and I were being fitted for tuxes for a friend's wedding. The girl who was measuring us was really hot, and Paulie and I started going back and forth about her(in Italian). Don't worry, I'll translate:

Steve: "Eh, Paolo, che pensi di quel braciola?"
["Hey, Paulie, what do you think about this little piece of meat?"]

Paulie: "Be', per me va molto bene, tutt'appost!"
["Man, it looks really good to me!"]

Steve: "Pensi che le piacerebbe andare ai ginnochi?"
["Do you think she likes to suck dick?"]

Paulie: "Ehh, credo di si', credo che questa braciola desidera sempre un cazzo duro!"
["Ya, I think so, I think that this chick constantly craves cock!"]

Girl working on our tuxes: "Voi stronsi non sapete che parlo Italiano anch'io!"
["You assholes don't know that I speak Italian, do you?"]

Ahem.

Our waitress is in a chatty mood. She's very cute, maybe 5'6", with a wide, happy smile and intense blue eyes. Her name is Morgan. I really like that name. She's thin and kind of waifish, with a really firm, tight ass. I like round asses with a little bit of a jiggle, usually, but Morgan is totally in proportion and I love that.

"So what're you guys up to tonight," she says.

"We're just tryin' to stay outta trouble," Paulie says.

"THAT'S no fun," Morgan says. She's looking at me.

"Any chance you could change the channel for us," I say.

"Sure! What do you guys wanna watch?"

"Home Shopping Club!" I say.

She laughs out loud. "Doubt it!"

"Ok, TLC? HGTV? General Hospital??"

"I'm thinking not," she laughs.

"Sex and the City, then."

"You're getting closer," she says. "If it involves sex, they might not object too much."

"I wouldn't know, I'm a virgin," I say, smiling.

"Yeah. RIGHT," she says. She's smiling at me.

"I need another beer," Paulie says. Morgan walks off to get it.

"Knock it off!" Paulie says.

"What?"

"Quit fucking hitting on the waitress. What's your problem?"

"I'm NOT hitting on her! I was just talking to her. So were YOU!"

"Steve, I'm not fucking stupid. I know you. I KNOW you! I know when you're on the make."

He's right, too. I am pretty sure I could fuck this waitress. She looked like a horny little slut, truth be told. And I was hitting on her. I have fucked so many waitresses that it's not funny. I have much better luck with the girls serving the drinks than I do with the chicks who are drinking them. This would have been easy.

Was I really thinking about doing it?

"Whatever, Paul." I don't have to admit everything to him, after all.

He grabs my arm. "Steve, Lila was at your mother's funeral. She was crying. CRYING! For YOU! She was so sad that you were hurting that she was crying. Is this how you pay her back?"

"Paul."

"If you cheat on her, if you fuck this up, I am never fucking speaking to you again. You got it? I MEAN it!"

"Fine, man, fine! Take it easy!" I say.

Something tells me he is not bluffing.

Back in the saddle

I hate coming back to the office after a long absence.

Yeah, it couldn't be helped. But I really cannot exaggerate how much work I have on my desk lately. And it's pretty disheartening to think that, along with the usual emergencies that crop up each day, I've got a week's worth of reports to review, department heads to meet with, turf battles to resolve, and messes to clean up.

I never thought I would say this, but thank God for Dom. He is a gifted manager, and I already know that I can trust him not to miss little details. Not much gets past him. He's been picking up a lot of the slack since I've been out.

I have been pretty tough on Dom. Every time I get an idea for a new project, I hand it off to him, much like Ross did with me. And like me, Dom never says "no". It's always, "We'll find a way to make it happen, Steve." I like that. Ever since I leaned into him the first day, Dom has been polite and respectful to me.

Yeah, I like him.

I guess I can see why he was angry at not getting Ross's job. I still think I was the right choice, but Dom has been with the company longer, and has worked very hard. In his shoes, I would feel the same way.

Whenever I have been out of the office for more than a day or two, I like to come in on the Friday before I am due back. The later in the day the better. Things tend to be pretty quiet, and it's a great time to clean out my inbox, e-mail, and voice mail, so I am not inundated on Monday morning.

It's Friday the 24th, and I finally make it in around 5:15. I've got over 200 e-mails. I really think I need Bonnie to start opening and sorting my e-mail for me, as crazy as that sounds.

It feels good to be back at my desk. I feel....better! For days now, I have been craving my routine. There is something comforting about knowing that my company is still here, my office is still here; that I can occupy my time with a long list of phone calls to return and knotty employee problems that need to be untangled fastidiously, like a kid's shoelace. This place will help me occupy my time.

I manage to clear all the faxes and memos from my desk. I get some wood polish and give the desktop a good cleaning. Now, I'll be ready to get started quickly on Monday morning.

I look out my window at a squirrel picking up a piece of bark mulch and nibbling on it. I like watching things like that.

That squirrel needs to gather food for the winter. That's pretty much it. The squirrel doesn't care whether I answer my voice mails or not. It calms me down when I remember that the world is a place bigger than my office building.

On Monday, I have to call Dan Johnson. It is time to come clean about Lila.

The more I think about it, the more I think I will be ok. It only makes sense. It would be disastrous to fire me now. The staff is just getting used to me, and then we are going to make another change? And what would the board of directors say?

There'd be weeks of damage control. Another person would have to be hired, or promoted, to fill my job, and there'd be a domino effect as five or six people would be shifted around to new positions, each one getting terribly behind while learning the ropes.

This promotion, and all the personnel moves that surrounded it, was complicated business. I don't think the company would do it again unless it had to. And something tells me that my and Lila's situation is more prevalent than I first thought.

But none of that matters. I have to assume that Ross told Dan. And, that being the case, I had better confess to Dan before he confronts me. Screwing around with an employee is bad; keeping it a secret is worse. And even if I tell Dan now, it's true that I've been keeping this quiet for months. He's probably not going to be happy.

**********

Monday the 27th, 9:05am. It's time to get this over with. I call Dan Johnson's office.

"Hi, Claire. May I speak to Dan?"

"Steve! Hi! Sure, just a minute!"

I listen to the same 30-second loop of cheesy electronic music about 7 times in a row. It sounds like it's being plinked out on a kid's toy piano. Why do I suddenly crave instrumental, clarinet versions of Bette Midler songs?

We have the same hold music here at my office. One day, I'm going to surprise the shit out of everybody and swap out the nursing home-lobby muzak with "Pretty Hate Machine" by Nine Inch Nails.

"Steve, Steve, Steve," Dan says. "What, my friend, have you learned today?"

"I can't learn anything before 9am," I say. "Union regulations, you know."

"Don't mention that word," Dan says. Yeah, we have problems with unions from time to time. "And it's 9:15, anyway."

So I started the conversation on the wrong foot. Great. No matter, though; it's going to get worse.

"Dan, there's something I need to tell you."

"You're sleeping with your secretary," he says.

Ahhhh, you gotta love that Ross. Just as reliable as that atomic clock that loses about one 10,000th of a second every billion years.

I don't like stuttering or stammering. I think it makes me look weak. I try never to use disfluencies, like "um," "uh," "er," "well," and so on. It really does make a difference when you avoid them. Remember that!

"Yes, Dan." I say emphatically. I also don't like saying "yeah" instead of "yes".

"And you figured that Ross told me about it, so now you're telling me before I tell you. Right?"

I pause. "Yes."

He sighs, then pauses for a long time. "Haaaaaah, I remember the first time I fucked a secretary," he says wistfully. "It was 1984. Her name was Trudy. Only Trudy I've ever met, before or since. Who the hell names their daughter that, anyway?"

"Dan, I-"

"She had big, nice tits. Nice and firm," he continues. "And she had one of those beehive hairdos. Don't you love those beehive hairdo's, Steve?"

"Did you say nineteen EIGHTY-four, or nineteen SIXTY-four," I ask.

"EIGHTY-four."

So bascially, Dan, you were fucking Kate Pierson from the B-52's.

"Dan, listen," I say. "You have to know that this wasn't something I planned..."

"Oh no, of course not," Dan says sarcastically. "None of us ever plan it. It just happens. Right?"

Uh, yes?

"I suppose," I say.

"Yeah. Well, if I had a nickel for every executive who was fucking an employee, I would.... I'd need a wheelbarrow for all the nickels."

"So you're ok with this?"

"NO! I'm NOT ok, Steve! It's a huge potential liability for this company! But I can't object to something that I don't know about."

But he DOES know about it, I think. Ahhhhhhh, wait a minute. It's the "I know nothing, I see nothing, I hear nothing" defense!

"Gotcha."

"Just be careful, Steve. Don't be stupid. Don't let it out in the open. If it gets out, I'll have to address it. Until it does, I don't know anything about it."

"Thank you, Dan."

"For what?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Nothing," I say.

"I do have one question, though," he says.

"What's that?"

"Does she have any sisters?"

Cliffhanger #2,317: resolved. Kind of.

"You're fucking her, aren't you?"

I sneer at Ross, as if tasting something bitter. "Thanks for coming, Ross," I say, ripping my hand away from him and turning my back.

I promised myself that I wouldn't lie if someone asked me that question. But I'm at my mother's wake, for crying out loud! It felt ok to put him off. I didn't actually lie, anyway.

Still, I'm sure he's going to speak to Dan about it. And I'm going to have some major damage control to do on Monday. But you know what? I don't care. I love Lila, and I needed to be with her, and she's really helped me get through this. There are other jobs, if I lose this one. I'm never going to have another mom, or another Lila.

We have to be back here at the funeral home first thing in the morning. It's been another draining evening and everyone goes their separate ways for the night.

Lila has been staying over every night since Tuesday. I know I usually get kind of claustrophobic about overnight female guests, but I'm really happy she's been there. I don't know what I would have done if I had to sleep alone. It's been nice having someone next to me when I wake up.

10:30. Lila is pressed up tightly against me in bed. I can feel the heat of her breath against my cheek; I smell the green apple-smell of her hair.

"Thank you," I say.

"For what?" she says, playing with my hair.

"For staying with me."

"There is nowhere else in the whole world that I would rather be than right here, next to my baby," she says, in her little-girl voice.

"Thanks for giving mom the dress."

"You're welcome."

"Thanks for meeting my family."

"I LOVE your family!"

"They love you too! Thanks for helping me feel better."

"Welcome."

We kiss.

It's a deep, urgent, slow kiss, our wet lips kneading softly.

She rolls to her side, wrapping her knees lovingly around my hips, closing her eyes and letting our passion completely take over.

I am hurt, scared, and vulnerable. I NEED to be close to her, inside her, deeply inside her, so that it feels like she is a part of me, and I am a part of her. I'm starving, or dying of thirst, or freezing to death, and she is the food, water, and heat.

I haven't been thinking of sex that much these past few days. But now my desire comes rushing back, as if my blood had first thawed, then started to burn.

I hear the snap of the elastic as she pulls her panties down her legs. I suddenly remember how much I love this feeling, how much I need it.

I am on top of her now, our bodies grinding together in perfect synch. I am not inside her yet; I am waiting until just the perfect moment.

Her breathing gets faster. Her breaths are shaky and quivering, as if she were in the 2-degree cold without a jacket.

She grabs my cock in her right hand. It turns me on that her fingers don't reach all the way around, that I am so totally turned on that it couldn't possibly get any bigger.

She pulls me into her, kissing me deeply. I want her so badly that there is nothing else at that moment, no mom, no funeral tomorrow, no family, no job, nothing but my fervent desire to mingle our bodies together, and her desperate need to please me.

She pulls me deeper inside her with her legs. Her breath still shaking, her voice silent except for the little clipped moans that slip out from time to time.

I stare at her body in the half-light, rising and falling with the rhythm of our sex, her muscles taut as we strain to pull ourselves even closer together, so that neither one of us will ever have to be alone again. Her breasts bounce slightly; her curvy hips look beautiful, simply perfect, as she thrusts them at me with a fiery passion to match mine.

I stop for a moment and feel our sex building to a crescendo. I sigh as I release all of my emotion, all of my sadness, all of my love for her in one exploding climax.

I look at Lila. There are tears streaming down the sides of her face. Mine too.

The room falls silent. Suddenly I become aware that it is pouring down rain outside. I didn't even hear it until just this moment.

**********

Lila took Friday off to be with the family. I don't expect anyone from work to be at church, but if they are, they are. I'll explain it away, somehow, and if I can't, we'll figure something else out when the time comes.

At the church, it's like I am outside my body. Dad asked me to do one of the readings, and as I genuflect at the altar and walk up to the lectern, it feels like this isn't real anymore. It can't be.

I listen to my voice over the speakers; it sounds faint and far away, like someone talking in the next room.

This can't be happening. There can't be six guys, dressed in black, carrying my mother in a box. The priest can't be sprinkling mom's casket with holy water. Mom can't BE in a casket. Mom can't be dead. She CAN'T be! Mom was young! And young people don't die.

Do they?

The mass ends and the pallbearers carry the casket back down the stairs and slide it silently into the hearse. Lila and I get into my car and take our place in the line of vehicles bound for the cemetery.

We stand by mom's grave, the priest leading us in prayer. All I can do is look at the casket, shiny and pink, sitting on top of a kind of wooden scaffolding, supported by a rectangle of grey metal tubes. There is an ocean of colorful flowers on the casket. It's beautiful and tragic.

I touch the coffin one final time as I walk away. It's cold and hard.

Family members hug and wipe away tears. I turn to Lila. She is squeezing my arm with both hands. She is crying, too.

"Can you go back to dad's house with the girls," I say.

"What? Why!?"

"I need to stay here for a few minutes alone," I say.

"But why? I wanna stay with you!"

"I need to be alone."

"What are you gonna do?"

I dunno. Thought I'd piss into her grave, maybe. Or light off a few M-80's in there.

"I just need to say goodbye alone."

"No, I want to be with you, Steve."

"Lila, please!"

"Steve, I don't understand why you are pushing me away! I don't understand why you won't let me be there for you!"

"I AM letting you be there for me! I just need to be by myself for the next few minutes! Can you please go back with Nancy and Janet?"

"OK," she pouts.

"I PROMISE I won't let you outta my site when I get back, ok, baby?"

"PROMISE!?"

"Promise."

She hugs me. "I love you," she says.

"I love you."

I sit sideways on the driver's seat of my car until all the other cars are gone. I am mabye 60 yards away from mom's gravesite.

A small, Bobcat-like vehicle rolls up to the grave. It's got a short crane-type attachment coming off the top of it. Two men work busily, attaching cables to the coffin.

The Bobcat driver works levers expertly, feverishly, and the casket leaves the ground. The two men scurry around the scaffolding, then step away. And then the coffin, with my mother in it, starts to descend silently into the earth.

It's really over, I think. Mom won't make a recovery, she won't go to rehab, she won't get a liver transplant, she won't turn over a new leaf. There is no life left in her body and never will be. It's over.

One side of the coffin is much lower than the other as the man lowers it into the grave. It's the side closest to the headstone, the part where mom's head would be. I imagine her inside the casket, being jostled about, her hands coming unfolded, her hair going askew, her body lurching heavily this way or that.

I want to get out of the car and yell at the man: HEY! Watch what the hell you're doing! Be CAREFUL with her!

But mom doesn't need me to do that now. Nothing that happens to her body is important from this point onward. Mom just needs me to drive away, back to dad's house, where I can be with my family and mourn together one last time.

To Mom, from Steve

Dear Mom,

Ever since I found out you were sick, I've been thinking about the time when I was 10 and we went to the county fair together.

It was early September, and school had just started. I was sitting at the kitchen table, doing my homework, and Greg and Chris were off playing soccer with dad.

You came to me and said, "Steve, get your shoes on! We're going to the fair!" I kept thinking it was some kind of joke, that you didn't really want to go, or that it would start raining, or that you would pass out from drinking before we left.

But we did make it, and it was a beautiful day. We walked all around, riding the Music Express and that ride where it spins around at 100 miles an hour, the floor drops out, and you stick to the wall.

In those days, I pretty much ate everything that didn't have a pulse, but I had never tried fried dough, and I didn't want to. You told me that you had loved it ever since you were a little girl, and that you knew me, and you knew what I liked, and you knew I would enjoy it. Sure enough, I tried it and loved it. You convinced me to try something new, and you did it with a smile and lots of encouragement. I'll never forget that.

I remember coming home and being tired; a good, happy tired. I said, "Can we go somewhere else together soon?" and you said, "Of course, honey." But we never did.

That day is the last time I remember you being my mom and me being your son.

I could tick off a long list of reasons why you were a bad mother, and how you hurt me. But I tried screaming and swearing and being angry at you when you were alive, and it didn't help me. Now I'm going to try forgiving you.

I know you didn't ask to be forgiven. And I'm not doing it because it's the "right thing to do", or because I feel you deserve it. I'm doing it because I think that is what I need to do to feel better and move on with my life.

Do you remember the song "A Boy Named Sue"? It's the story of a man who leaves his wife and young son, and in order to toughen the boy up, the father names him Sue, figuring that people would give him a hard time about it, and he would have to learn to defend himself. And Sue grew up to be a mean, tough man.

That's kind of like how you and I were. You neglected and abused me, but I developed a thick skin. I learned how to control my emotions and not get upset over every little thing. Not much bothers me anymore, and I have a lot of grace under pressure, because I've been through so much.

Of course, that doesn't let you off the hook, mom. This wasn't a master plan on your part. Still, no matter what you did AFTER I was born, you were the one who made me, you were the one who gave me life, you were the one who carried me around for nine months and then went through the pain and agony of giving birth to me. Without you I would not be here, and I will always thank you for that.

Every beautiful song I hear, every delicious filet mignon I eat, every savory glass of wine I drink, every orange and purple sunset I watch with a sea breeze blowing in my face, would not have been possible without you. So I guess I owe a little part of every pleasure in my life to my mother. Thank you, mom.

I learned something from you. I learned how important it is to put my family first, to be the best father that I can be, if I ever have kids. I learned how badly things can go, and how many problems can result, if a parent isn't there. Again, you didn't know it, but you were helping me.

To me, "forgiveness" means forgetting. I am going to try to put all the pain and suffering that you caused me out of my mind and just be happy. I can think of a million reasons to be bitter, but why should I do that? You are gone, and you are never coming back. Why not remember you with a smile on my face? Why not remember you like a friend who led a bad life, then suddenly found her way? Where is the harm in that?

I hope to have a wife and a family someday, and wherever you are, I hope that your grandsons or granddaughters bring a smile to your face. I promise I will be the best dad I can possibly be, and I will love them, just like I love you, mom.

And every time I give them fried dough, I will think of you.

Your son,
Steve