The honeymoon begins. And ends.

It's been a long time since I've been monogamous.

I didn't get laid until I was 21, as many of you know, and once my initiation (of sorts) was finished, I did fool around with 2 or 3 different girls, and then I met Angie, whom I dated for two years and actually got engaged to. I've already discussed Angie at length, so I won't belabor her again.

I was about 25 when Angie and I broke up. By then, I was out of grad school, had been hired at Tommy's firm, and was gung ho on my career. That's GUNG. HO.

Fifty- and sixty-hour-week gung ho. Whatever-the-project-is, give-it-to-me gung ho. Devour- every-available-periodical, milk-every-professional-in-spitting-distance-for-info gung ho.

I did everything I could to build my career, and it paid off, as you have read. I still thought about girls - a lot - but I cringed at the idea of a girlfriend stealing time away from work, and I was no good at random hookups back then. There was a lot of whacking in those days.

I got promoted to VP when I was 29. It was right around that time that I bought my house and my car, and started having more free time. It hit me while working out one morning that I could be getting laid. A lot. And get laid I did.

I fucked one girl after another, experimenting with different shapes, sizes, and colors, as if they were toys. I ate pussy and licked assholes. I got my dick sucked. I spanked. I GOT spanked. I fucked a girl, then fucked her sister a month later. I was a runaway freight train, hurtling down a steep sexual incline with no possibility of slowing down.

And I was having the time of my life.

I loved all the new experiences that were opened to me by my dating around. I loved being able to come home alone. I loved the thrill of the pursuit, the angling, the gamesmanship involved in trying to get some girl into bed with me. I loved the drama of not knowing what would happen when I approached her with a certain line or a certain cologne.

Even now, I am monogamous not because I love monogamy, but because I love Lila. I wonder if I will be able to resist temptation.

A lot went into telling her that I loved her. For the first time in a long time, I actually gave a shit about someone other than myself. I fought it as much as I could, because it was scary. But it's been a long time since I've felt this way about someone.

I just can't help but be reminded of our age difference, and how young people need to sow their wild oats. In five years, if we are still together, will Lila still love me? Or will she be wondering what she missed because she was not single? And if some other hot chick comes along, am I going to use these thoughts as an excuse to cheat?

**********

With all the time I've been spending with mom, and talking with the family about mom, I haven't had as much time to clean up around the house, and it's starting to get a little sloppy. Nothing outrageous, but worse than usual. Lila offers to come over after work and clean up.

While she is putting away my laundry, I run to the store and buy a few things. When I get back, she is washing the kitchen floor, so I leave the bag on the table. "I'll put it away," she says.

I check my e-mail and surf around for a bit, then come back upstairs and open the cupboard. And almost have a heart attack.

The cupboard is a fucking disaster area.

Not a real disaster, mind you. In reality, my canned goods were moved from the second shelf to the third, and all the boxed foods had been moved to the second.

But, like the 87-pound anorexic that looks in the mirror and sees Kirstie Alley, I see a Vietnam-style grocery massacre. There might as well be exploded globs of cranberry plastered around the cupboard walls, with shards of metal can strewn randomly about.

"Lila. LILA!" I yell.

She runs into the room. "What is it, Steve?"

"What the hell happened here?" I say, holding the cupboard door open.

"I just moved some things around to fit the groceries in there."

"You rearranged the whole fucking thing!"

"No I did NOT!"

"Lila, all my cans are moved, all the boxes are moved..."

"Come ON, Steve, are you THAT anal?" she says.

"I have the cupboard arranged in a certain way, Lila. Don't mess with it!"

"Well, you're paying me to do chores so I was just trying to do my job!"

"Your job is not to mark your territory like a fucking wolf!" I say.

"WHAT?!"

"Lila, this is NOT your house. You bought me the gazebo, you picked out the curtains, you're acting like you LIVE here!"

She stares at me. Her eyes start to mist over. "I can't believe you said that," she says. "If you don't want the gazebo, just tell me and I'll return it and you can have the money. And you ASKED me to pick out the curtains. It was YOUR idea to go shopping for them, not mine!"

Uh, oh yeah.

"Baby, I don't want the money, I..."

"You can be such an asshole sometimes," she says.

"I didn't mean to yell. You're right, I did ask you to go shopping for curtains. I'm sorry."

"Really?" she says.

"Yes."

Just hand those balls over, Steve.

**********

The next day, Tuesday, around dinnertime. Lila calls.

"I just bought a car!" She says.

"Which one?"

"That Honda I was looking at. I got him down to $6800!"

"Lila, that car was over 8 grand! How did you do that?"

"Gave him my phone number," she says, without laughing.

Fuck. There are some crazy guys out there. Things like that are dangerous.

"Oh, man."

"Well, actually, I didn't give him MY number, I gave him YOURS. I'm figuring the first time he calls you can pretend to be my dad and go off on him. That ought to make him leave me alone."

"You have learned well, grasshopper," I say.

Enter greaseball

It's Saturday morning.

They decide to release mom from the hospital. She is looking better than I have seen her in some time: Clean, rested, and with a little more meat on her bones.

The doctor makes mom promise to keep taking her medicine, and to get to a 12-step program. Mom agrees.

Mom rides with dad; Jenn and I ride together in my car. There's a lot of uncomfortable silence. Jenn didn't take it well when I told her about Lila.

"So, you're kissing me, and...touching me, and all the while you're in LOVE with someone else?" she says, curling her lip.

"We were fighting," I say.

"So you were just using me then," she says.

"No! I really do care about you, Jenn! It's just....weird, that's all."

No, it's not, but that might shut her up.

"Yeah, it is kinda weird," she says, finally. "I guess nothing was ever gonna become of it, right?"

"Well, isn't that illegal?" I ask. "I mean, if we ever wanted to get married or something."

Of course not. Well, not in most states. But if I say that, it will look like the only reason I wasn't more into her is because of the cousin issue.

"Yeah, I guess so," she says.

"Jenn, I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean for it to happen; it just happened!"

Wink, wink, guys.

"I know. It just kinda happens with us," she says.

"You've been SO great with mom - so incredible - I would feel awful if I drove you away somehow," I say, trying to look sincere.

She sighs. "It's ok, I guess."

That conversation took place last night, Friday, and today it still seems unresolved. She and I are not having one of the animated discussions that we usually have. She just stares out her window, brushing black curls out of her eyes.

"You ok?" I say, finally.

"It's just this whole rollercoaster. I was starting to think these crazy things."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like you and I being together. Like just going for it, no matter what anyone said. And I liked the idea!"

"But like you said, Jenn, our moms..."

"Oh, I know. They would never deal. But I was just kinda..daydreaming about it."

"Me too."

Nah. Not really.

**********

It's Monday. Ross calls me into his office (soon to be my office).

"Steve, Dan Johnson is on the phone," he says.

"Good morning sir."

"Good morning to you, sir," the speakerphone blares back, tinnily.

"Steve, as you have probably realized, there is going to be a position opening up here when you get promoted," Ross says.

"Right. My position," I say. "I have a few people in mind. There's Andrew from underwriting; he's been around for a while, and he knows so much about the industry-"

"Steve, moving you up to DM took a bit of....political capital," Dan says. "Do you know what political capital is?"

"You had to call in a few markers."

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Some people were uneasy about it. And, if we were to put yet another newbie into YOUR old job, well, that would cost us even MORE political capital."

Newbie?

Shit. It sounds like they want me to hire someone they hand-picked.

"I see. So who did you have in mind," I say.

"Dominick Marinelli," Dan says.

Dammit. Dominick is my counterpart on the west coast. He's about 10 years older than me, and has 20 years in the business. He's about 6 feet tall, and scarecrow skinny, with thinning brown hair, huge hazel eyes and swarthy skin. His clothes look like something out of an Armani ad, and he drives a Maserati, I think.

He's very successful with the ladies: Every time I see Dom at a convention, he's always bragging about some bimbo that he nailed the night before. I always say that guys who brag about it aren't really getting any, but in Dom's case I think he is.

He always talks in a silky-soft tone of voice, as if he were trying to seduce you, even if you are a man. You have to lean in to hear him. And he walks around drenched in cologne. Yeah, I know, I do that too, and I am (was) a skirt-chaser, too, but with the bragging and the soft-talking, Dom strikes me as a true greaseball. I get a very bad vibe from him. I get the sense he would do anything, step on anyone, to get ahead. I was always secretly glad I didn't work with him.

And now he's going to work for me.

".....a really great manager," Dan is saying. "Dominick runs a tight ship. I've already spoken to him about moving out your way, and he's very excited."

"You offered him the job?!" I say.

Am I in charge here or not, asshole?

"Steve, I don't mean to step on your toes. And if you tell me you really disagree with this choice, well, I'll let you decide. But Dominick is eminently qualified. EM-I-NENT-LY!" Dan says.

"You know what Bill Parcells says," I say. "If you want me to cook dinner, you've gotta let me buy the groceries. I'm going to be held responsible for the success or failure of this office, and that's as it should be. And I understand why this choice had a political component to it. But I would respectfully request that all future hiring decisions be left up to me."

"WELL put, Steve! Excellent!" Dan says. "Yes. Yes, of course!"

"For the record, I do believe Dom is very qualified," I say. "In fact, I'd like to call Dom and make the offer myself."

"Oh. Yes, of course," Dan says.

Tuesday, 10:00. Dom sweeps into our office, pulling his wheeled laptop mini-suitcase behind him, his big, gliding strides swallowing up the carpeted floor beneath him easily.

Work stops. Heads rise over cubicle walls. Hands cover mouths, hiding whispers. I walk out to meet him. "Dom!" I say, happily. We shake hands. He squeezes viciously, his white, easy smile never breaking. I squeeze back, just to keep him from breaking any bones.

We sit in my office, exchanging trivial details about travel and weather that neither of us care about.

"I should have gotten this DM job," Dom says.

I smile. What a fucking asshole.

"I mean, no offense to you, Steve, but I've been here a lot longer than you. And my record is just impeccable. I let Dan know I'm very unhappy about it."

Some people push the envelope whenever a new boss comes around. It's the substitute-teacher phenomenon: Our regular teacher is not here, so let's harass the new guy. Let's see if he's got the balls to stand up to us.

One order of balls, coming up.

"While we're baring our souls, Dom, let me tell you something. You weren't my first choice for this job, either. But you're there, and I'm here. And let me tell you, I am extremely enthusiastic for MY job. And I won't tolerate anything less than extreme enthusiasm in yours."

"Steve, I didn't mean-"

"If you didn't want the job, you didn't have to take it. I know you got a nice raise, and a bonus, for coming out here. But if you've decided you don't want to do it, tell me now. Otherwise, Dom, I don't want to hear about this again. Deal?"

"I didn't mean anything by it, Steve, I was just saying-"

"DEAL?" I say.

"Deal," he says.

Hi, my name is Steve, and I am completely pussy whipped

"What did you say?" Lila asks.

"You heard me," I smile.

A tear forms in the corner of her eye. She sniffles.

There is a long silence.

"Are you gonna say something," I say.

"Are you saying that just because we're fighting?" she says, finally.

Ah, shit.

"Lila, I've been fighting this for weeks. You've done so much for me. You've given me so much, you've been so understanding, so patient, you've been perfect. You make me so happy that I don't want to be anywhere else but with you. Anytime I'm not with you I can't wait to see you again. And I trust you totally. I would trust you with my life."

"But Steve, doesn't it bother you that you're so much older? I mean, what if you find some girl who's your own age?"

"Lila."

"Hm?"

"Shut up." I kiss her. It's a slow, passionate kiss. No tongue. I felt it would be inappropriate.

She looks at me. Her eyebrows are slightly raised, her mouth hangs open, her skin is pale white.

"You're scared," I say.

Silence.

"I'm scared too. Do you know how long it's been since I've opened myself up like this to anyone? But when I fell asleep next to you in the middle of the day..." I trail off.

"What?" she says.

"I just knew."

"Knew what?"

"Well, I knew I was....in love with you."

"What?" she says, beaming.

"Ahhh, Jesus. Here we go," I say.

"What?" she says, smiling even bigger.

"I LOVE you," I say. "There. Happy?"

"You do realize I'm gonna make you say that 15 times a day, right?" she says.

"No problem."

She hugs me. "Mmmmmmm," she purrs into my chest.

I get hard. I haven't had sex in what feels like forever. I pull back a little so she can't feel my erection. I don't want her to think that this is all about sex, because it's not. Wouldn't turn town a blow job, though.

"Don't make any plans for tonight," she says.

I can't get a reservation anywhere fancy on short notice, so we wind up at the Outback. It's our waitress's first day and we wait forever. So we order a bloomin' onion and we do the vodka-tonic / Sprite thing so Lila can drink a little.

Lila's feet keep bumping against mine under the table. She is staring at me and biting her lip. It's been over an hour with no food other than the onion.

I call the waitress over and tell her we can't wait any more.

"It's coming up in five minutes!" she says.

"It's too late. And tell the manager we have no intention of paying."

"Umm, ok."

We finish our drinks and get up to leave. A very tall man comes to our table.

"How ya doin', folks?" He says.

"Hungry," I say.

"I'm really sorry. There's no excuse for this. I'm gonna buy you dinner tonight," he says. "And if you stay, I'll buy you dessert too."

I think we've got dessert covered, pal. In fact, I think dinner is totally unnecessary at this point.

"Next time," I say, shaking his hand.

We are starving. There is a roadside ice cream place on the way to my house. "Let's stop here!" Lila says.

We sit in my car, eating sundaes. I hold out a spoonful of vanilla ice cream to her. She takes half the spoon in her mouth, then lets it out slowly, staring at me the whole time. That is one happy spoon.

"Let's go home," she says.

We're a mile away from my house when I see an old Buick broken down by the side of the road. An elderly man stands 20 feet away, his arms folded.

I pull over. "You ok," I shout.

I can't hear his reply. I get out and walk up to him.

"Flat tire," he says.

I hold out my phone. "You wanna call triple-A?"

"Already called 'em. They said it's gonna be two hours. I wouldn't mind, but it's damn cold out here."

A little chilly, yeah, but not that bad. This poor bastard is old and skinny.

"You gotta spare?" I say, finally.

"In the trunk."

I open the trunk and get the spare and the jack.

Lila gets out. "Can I help," she asks.

I jack up the car and pull the flat tire off. There is a roofing nail stuck inside.

I stand the spare tire up on the street next to me. We're on flat ground, and it won't go anywhere, right?

Wrong.

The tire wobbles down the road. Lila takes off after it, in her mermaid dress and platform soles. I watch in slow motion as she trips and falls on top of the tire.

She rolls it back to me, a brown, greasy stain crossing the front of her dress. "Got it!" she says, sheepishly. We laugh.

I replace the tire, lower the car, and tighten the lugs. "Lemme give ya some money fer that," the old man says, holding out a folded-up bill.

"It's my pleasure, sir," I say, waving my hand at him.

Back at home. Finally.

I turn the TV on and take off my shoes. We flop down on the couch, exhuasted.

I look at Lila. Her face is sweaty. There is a black grease stain on the tip of her nose. It's all I can do not to laugh.

"What's so funny," she says.

"Nothing."

"You know what?" she says.

"What."

"It's not a good thing chasing a spare tire when you're in clunky shoes and a tight dress," she says.

"And horny as hell?" I say.

"Horny as ALL hell."

"Uh-huh," I say, moving towards her.

"Say it," she says.

"I love.....ice cream?" I say. She laughs.

We kiss. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to have our faces so close together. "I love you baby," she says. "I MISSED you. I was MISerable."

"Me too."

We take our clothes off. Getting her out of her dress was harder than you might think, with its buttons, hooks, and zippers. "I think I'd rather change a tire," I say, laughing.

She's in a blue bra and white thong panties.

Sorry, honey, you don't match. Gonna have to deduct points for that.

She places her lips against mine, slowly. As her tongue enters my mouth, I taste the bloomin' onion and the ice cream. I don't care.

I reach behind her and one-hand her bra strap. Down her bra goes, exposing her full, round breasts. I run my hand over her nipple. It's firm, like a cherry.

She slides her panties off. My sex drive is out of control. All I can think about is fucking her. Now.

But I make myself wait. I'm going to make this one COUNT.

We move to the bedroom. She lays down on her back and opens her legs, looking up at me with her smoldering brown eyes. There are no words to describe how incredibly hot she is.

I lower myself on top of her, and rub my cock against her. She closes her eyes, panting. She is shaking.

I pull back a little and try to enter her, without touching it with my hand or even looking down.

I miss, and slide across the front of her pussy. A NICE miss.

I try again. This time, I make it. I feel her wetness all around me. She feels tighter than usual. It has been awhile, hasn't it?

I look down and watch myself slide in and out of her. Her pussy is hot; I can feel it. She wraps her legs around me, lifting her hips up to meet mine.

I lean back. I am standing on the floor now. Her entire pelvis is off the bed, her ankles locked behind me. And I start wailing away.

"You're hitting a really good spot," she breathes. She opens her eyes and stares at me.

I am just about to explode. No way I am doing that yet.

I pull out and turn her over to her stomach, her feet on the floor. Her hips are raised a little, her soft, pink vagina exposed to me, her long hair cascading down her back.

I enter her from behind. I grab onto her hips, gliding easily in and out of her.

I pull all the way out, then slide back into her without touching. Is there a better feeling than that? Don't think so...

I watch as she raises her hips and reaches between her legs to rub her clit.

She is panting.

I am shaking.

Yeah, this one's gonna leave a mushroom cloud.

She pushes her hips back against me. "Ohhhhhhhh, don't move, don't fucking move," she says.

She reaches back and grabs my hand, digging her nails into my flesh. "I'm cominnnnnng," she says breathlessly, almost whispering.

Stopping in mid-screw always slows me down a little. It takes a minute for me to get back to where I was. But now the orgasm is the size of a tidal wave.

I pull harder on her hips. The feel of her soft skin sends me right over the edge. I explode into her with a soft groan. And just like that, the cloud lifts. Suddenly, it hits me how much I have to be happy about: My job, my raise, my family, my house, my car. I am the luckiest guy in the world.

I hope I don't screw it up.

We lay on the bed, talking. She still has the grease on her nose. I don't care.

Tying up some loose ends

LOOSE END #1: Ross

All's NOT well that ends well.

Ross left that meeting intentionally; I am sure of it. And I don't like it.

I really want to speak to him about what happened, but if he knows that, he'll avoid me until it's time for him to move. Such a coward.

I have Ross's laptop in my office, because he wanted me to download his contact list. THAT'S my ticket.

Bonnie, Ross's secretary (soon to be mine, more on this in a moment) sticks her head in my door. "I need Ross's laptop," she says. It's 11:30.

"Tell Ross I need to see him first," I say.

"Is it something I can help with?"

"No."

"OK, Steve." Bonnie was at the meeting. She knows what's happening.

12:45. Bonnie ushers Ross into my office. He is standing next to my desk, looking at me. Bonnie closes the door. Ross looks back, confused.

I read somewhere that this is the ultimate power position: Seated at your desk, with someone looking down at you. It's like they are not worthy to sit in your presence. It does feel pretty powerful.

"Family emergency, huh?" I say.

"Barbara called me, right before the meeting. I couldn't get to you before we started. Sorry about the text message-"

"Tell me, Ross. What was it this time? Were you choosing a ceiling paint color? Or maybe curtains for the living room?"

"Steve, it was an emergency."

"BULLSHIT, Ross!" I am raising my voice, but I'm not angry. My emotions are totally in check, but I'm trying to scare him. It works. Ross takes a step backwards. "You fucking threw me under the bus. You KNEW someone was gonna give me shit about the insurance premiums. And you didn't want to deal with it. So you LEFT!"

"Yeah, Steve, it's all a conspiracy. It's the grassy knoll all over again. Get over yourself. You're not even in charge yet, and already you're on a power trip."

"I know what you did, Ross. How you went behind my back. What, you didn't think I'd find out?"

"I EARNED that promotion, Steve. TEN YEARS I worked here. I worked my ASS off. I earned it."

"Then why'd you have to backstab me to get it?"

"Fuck you, Steve." He walks past me and snatches his laptop, then turns and heads for the door.

"Hey, Ross," I say.

He turns and looks at me.

"Do NOT fuck with me again. Do you understand?"

He turns and leaves, slamming the door.

**********

LOOSE END #2: Mom

7:00, Friday. My brothers and I gather at dad's house with Jenny to discuss Mom's condition.

"Boys, your mother is very sick," dad is saying. "She's got a very advanced case of cirrhosis. The doctors are very concerned."

"Is she gonna die," Greg says.

"Without a transplant, yes," dad says. "And, unfortunately, she can't get on the transplant list until she's been sober for at least six months, and preferably more. Liver transplants are hard to come by, and they won't give her one if they think there's any chance it's going to be jeopardized by alcohol abuse."

"Can she survive that long without one," I say.

"Maybe. It depends on how well the medication works. She seems to be responding well to it, but it's only been a day."

I am somewhat relieved. At least she has a fighting chance. I don't like mom, but I do love her.

"Is she committed to getting sober," I say.

"She is today. But you know your mother," dad says.

"Is she getting out of the hospital soon?" Greg says.

"Tomorrow, hopefully. They want to see how well the medicine works and observe her for one more day."

"I think we should all say thank you to Jennifer," I say. "She was the one who noticed mom's symptoms and insisted that she see a doctor. So Jenn, I want you to know we really appreciate it."

Everyone says "Thank you" to Jennifer. She smiles. "I'm only too happy to help," she says. She has been so helpful and kind throughout the whole process. It occurs to me that she is going to make a great wife someday, to some guy who is not related to her.

"Boys, I think it's time we start dealing with the possiblity...."

"That she's not gonna make it?" says Chris.

"She's very sick," dad says.

**********

LOOSE END #3: Jennifer

I drive Jenn home from the family meeting. It's a long ride. We talk the whole way. Every once in a while I shoot a glance over at her. She is beautiful, absolutely stunning, with her long, black, shiny curls and pouty red lips.

We sit in her parking lot, the engine ticking. The talking stops. We look at each other.

"You have been so great, Jenn, really amazing," I say.

"It's no problem," she says absently. We are both thinking about something else. What is going to happen? Am I going to kiss her? Is this the day we finally get naked and fuck each other's brains out?

I kiss her. It's the barely-touching, impossibly-soft Jennifer kiss that drives me insane.

"You are gonna make some guy a great wife someday," I say.

She squints at me. "Where did THAT come from?"

"As much as I love being with you, and as much as I would love to keep hooking up with you..."

"You don't want to anymore," she says.

"I'm in love with someone else."

There. I said it.

**********

LOOSE END #4: Lila

Shortly after 11am, Friday (I know, I am slightly out of chronological order. Deal.)

Lila appears in my office. She is wearing a stretchy, grey, form-fitting cotton dress. She's just as curvy as a Victoria's Secret model.

"Steve, that was a great speech," she says, smiling. She's been wearing her sadness like a mask for the past few days. It's gone now.

"Thanks, Lila!"

"I'm......I'm..proud of you," she says.

My heart soars. Could this be a reconciliation? Even with all the good news of the past few weeks, there's been a pall over me, like a dark cloud that never quite blows away. I can't fully enjoy anything, because I have not resolved things with Lila.

"Lila, I need to speak to you. Can you close that," I say, pointing my chin towards the door.

She closes the door and sits down.

"Lila, you've been my secretary for a long time, and you've done a great job. And my first choice was to have you as my secretary after the promotion..."

She sits up in her chair.

"But the fact is, Bonnie has been an executive secretary for 10 years. And there's a lot involved in working for a DM. I want you to train with her, learn what she does. You know how I feel about learning new things on the job-"

"mm-hmm. If you want to earn more, you have to learn more," she says. I say that all the time.

"Exactly! So, you'll work closely with Bonnie in the next few months. But I'm going to have you stay as the admin assistant for the operations manager, whoever that happens to be."

"Who WILL it be?"

"There are a few people I have in mind. But I have a feeling Dan Johnson will want something to say about it."

"OK."

We look at each other. We have a lot to talk about.

"Thanks for the flower," she says.

"What flower," I smile.

She smiles and stares at my paperweight, avoiding my eyes.

"Can you ever forgive me," I say.

"You really hurt me, Steve. And I just keep thinking that..."

"What?"

"That if I get back together with you, you'll hurt me again. And I just love you too much. It would KILL me!"

"So you don't trust me, is what you're saying."

"NO! I just...don't think you're ready."

"So that's it? YOU'RE telling ME I'm not ready? What qualifies you to say that?"

"I KNOW you, Steve. I just get this feeling that you're always plotting and scheming, like you've always got something going on behind my back that I don't know about."

Damn. Good call!

"Thanks, Lila."

She sighs in frustration. "Ahh, Steve, you just don't get it!" she says. "I'll talk to you later. I'll call you." She gets up from her chair and heads for the door.

"Hey," I say softly, getting up.

"WHAT?" She turns to look at me, bottom lip jutting outward in the prettiest pout you've ever seen.

"I love you," I say.

Behold! The Mildly Unwell Boutique is now open!!

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And now, back to our regularly scheduled blog.

**********

Friday, August 27

My promotion does not take effect until September 15, and it was only officially publicly announced today. But the rumor machine was ahead of the curve, and it's been a nonstop conga line of complaints, requests, and Godfather-style ring kissing into my office since several days before that.

The complaints fall into a few general categories:

1. Ross was unresponsive / didn't follow through on promises or deadlines that he set for himself;
2. Staff is overworked / not enough administrative support;
3. Ross is unappreciative of the employees and all they do.

I agree with all of the claims, except possibly #2.

There is a company meeting scheduled for today at 10:00, when we'll discuss the transition.

I prepare a speech for the meeting. Whenever I am making a presentation, I make an outline of what I am going to talk about. Seeing "IV. The past year's success" on a piece of paper is enough to jog my memory; then I can speak about it extemporaneously, and not sound too rehearsed. When I practice a speech, I don't try to memorize it word for word; I just try to remember the various topics. I think it sounds more natural that way.

9:55. Ninety or so employees are getting settled in our meeting room. It's hard to believe I supervise these dozens and dozens of people, or soon will, anyway.

10:00 sharp. People are still shifting around in their seats, clearing their throats, and smoothing their skirts. I have been pestering Ross to start exactly at 10:00, though. He steps up to the podium.

"Thank you all for being here," he begins. "Our very punctual new leader has informed me it's 10:00, so let's begin."

Chuckles.

"As most of you know," Ross begins, "I've been given an opportunity at our home office for a brand new position, and I actually begin work there on the 15th. My wife and I are very excited about moving, and yeah, a little overwhelmed, but also very happy. It's also a very sad time, because I know I won't be working with all of you anymore, and these last 10 years have been some of the best ones of my life.

Barbara and I don't have any kids of our own, but I've shared the joy of many of your children coming into the world, I've seen your kids get married, I've seen many of YOU build your careers and get promoted. And it's been really memorable.

It's hard to start over," he says, pensively. "It's hard to start over at my age. But I really felt this was the right thing to do. And it was an easy decision, knowing that there was someone so competent waiting in the wings to take over for me." He smiles over at me.

"Like I said, I don't have kids of my own, and Steve, you've been like a son to me. You've always been there for me when I needed you, and yes, when I'm wrong, you call me on it, like a good son should. Although you still act like a rebellious teen at times...."

Laughter.

"Since you'll be taking over these meetings, Steve, I'd like to hand the podium to you. Ladies and gentlemen, your new district manager."

Applause fills the room. I even hear a couple of "whoo-HOOOO's"!

I step up to the podium. I had left my notes on it earlier so I wouldn't be seen carrying papers in hand as I walked up. I believe small details like that are important.

I shake Ross's hand. He hugs me. There is a loud "AWWWWWW" from the audience.

"Thanks Dad, I mean, Ross," I say into the microphone.

Laughter and applause.

"This is going to be a very easy speech," I say. "I have one person to thank. And that's you, Ross."

Light applause.

"I was a relatively inexperienced kid who had ambition, and a love of the industry, but not much else. And you took a chance on me because you saw something that others did not see. I can honestly say that, were it not for you, I wouldn't be here, Ross."

More applause.

My BlackBerry goes off. I ignore it.

"One thing you will learn about me is, I am a man of my word," I say. "As Ross mentioned, today's meeting was supposed to start at 10, and it started at 10. We told you the meeting would last an hour, and I pledge that it won't go longer than that. Those of you who have worked with me can vouch for that."

A few heads nod.

"I want to say something," I continue. "I'm not here to rescue this division. I'm not here to solve any huge problems. Are we perfect? No. But this division is healthier than it's ever been. I'm here to maintain that and build on it-"

From the corner of my eye, I see Ross stand up and surreptitiously leave the room. What the hell?

But I'm in the middle of a speech, and when you are speaking, you are creating a kind of... mood. And that mood is destroyed pretty easily by leaving the podium, losing your place, or otherwise interrupting the speech. I don't dare step back and ask Ross where he is going. And he knows it.

Then it occurs to me: Maybe it was Ross on my BlackBerry. I sneakily detatch the unit from my belt and place it on the podium. I'll look at it when I can, I think.

"As your division manager, I want to accomplish three things," I say. First, I want to establish trust and rapport with all of you. That started today, at this meeting. I want you all to know that I am worthy of your trust. And I don't want you to just BELIEVE that because I say so; I want to PROVE it to you."

I look down at my BlackBerry. It's Ross. "Family emergency -have to go," it says.

"Secondly, I want to conduct a review of everyone's position in this office, and document our procedures thoroughly. We've got a policy and procedure manual now, and a lot of people don't know this, but it was written before we had PC's in this office. There's literally no reference to computers in the entire manual, and right now, in 2004, our entire industry depends on them."

Some heads shake incredulously. I really want to sell this point, because "documenting procedures" makes people nervous. They think some auditor is going to find out that they can be replaced by a machine, or some bespectacled geek in Walla Walla, Washington.

"And thirdly, and this is related to the other two, I want to increase our revenue in this office by 10% in the next 365 days."

A gasp fills the room. We have increased our revenue about 40% in the past year; we are the most profitable division in the country. No one can stop talking about it. And now I'm telling them I want more. I suddenly get the distinct impression that some people are angry.

"Yeah, it's a big goal," I say. "But how are we supposed to afford chocolate milk in the water fountains without it?"

More laughs.

Suddenly a woman stands up amidst the sea of chairs. It's Barbara from accounting. All heads in the room whip around to face her.

"What are you gonna do about our health insurance," she demands.

And just like that, the mood I had built is gone. Interrupting a speech is very rare. It happens, but whoever does it has to be plenty pissed off.

"Our health insurance?" I ask.

"Our premiums went up by over $100 a month," she says. "We keep hearing how much money this office is making; why don't you use some of that money to pay some of that?"

"Yeah!" say 10 or 15 people.

It occurs to me that Ross has not had a company meeting since May, when the premiums went up. He didn't want all the employees in one place together, because he knew someone was going to bring it up.

Family emergency, my ass.

I don't work for Ross anymore. He's going to hear from me about this one, and I'm not going to be nice about it. Bastard.

I remember the health insurance issue. We have one employee whose husband had cancer, and another who had gastric bypass surgery. The latter had severe complications and almost died; his hospital bill was over $250,000. Our rates went to the moon.

Ross made a decision to pass the entire increase on to the employees. I begged him to call a company meeting to discuss it, but he said no. Instead, he had memos inserted into all the paychecks.

"You know," I say. "As many of you have read, health insurance premiums are out of control all across the country. Last May, we looked around at competitors, and you know what? Our current provider was not out of line with what the others are charging. Which only makes sense, because no one in this business would charge more than the market will bear."

As I always say, if you don't like the question you are asked, answer a different one. She didn't ASK about the industry, but that's what I'm talking about.

"FINE!" says Barbara. "It's expensive. So why not pay some of it?"

There's a bit of nervous laughter.

So much for changing the subject.

I've got to be careful here. If I continue to let Barbara interrupt, it's going to look bad. I've got to assert some authority, especially now during my first speech; if I don't, it will set a very bad example.

"Sit down, Barbara," I say, firmly. She does.

I wait ten seconds for the room to quiet.

"When I was about 10 years old," I begin, "I went to my dad, on a Monday, and asked him for a dollar to buy a comic book. And then, a few days later, on Thursday, I asked him for FIVE dollars to buy another comic book. He said, 'Why five dollars? The comic book is only one'!, and I said, 'Because you get paid on a Thursday and I know you have more money today!'," I say.

The audience laughs. I think I've got them back now.

"It's easy to say, 'The division had a very good year, so you ought to pay more of our premiums.' And by the way, I pay those premiums too," I say. "But think of it this way: If I pay you $20,000 a year, and another $1,200 on your health premiums, which is what we pay now, that's $21,200 that the company is paying you. That's the COST of employing you. So the premium goes up, and we eat the premium. Now, instead of paying you $21,200, we're paying you $22,400. We've basically given you a raise.

Can we afford it? Maybe. But what about the employees who are NOT on the health insurance? Is that fair to them? Now THEY can come to me and say, 'hey, you gave those guys a raise, now we want one too. And what about the other divisions? Some of them didn't do as well as we did. What if THEIR employees see what we are doing, and demand the same thing? They'd probably have to lay off 3 or 4 people to match us.

We give raises here, but we give them in January. And we award them based on merit. Not expenses that are out of our control. Of course, we continually monitor the market to make sure we're not overpaying, but high premiums are an unfortunate fact of life.

Now, back in 2001, we DIDN'T have such a good year. We actually LOST money that year. And we didn't ask any of you pay MORE, did we? I don't think we want to go down this road."

Silence.

I close out the meeting with seven minutes to spare. And I think I just answered my first challenge as DM.

**********

They decided to keep mom overnight at the hospital to run some more tests. She is fit to be tied. But she's been much more reasonable since she sobered up.

12:10. My phone rings. It's dad.

"Steve," he says. "Your mother needs a liver transplant."

"Little Cocksucker" and other terms of endearment

"Little cocksucker."

That was mom's nickname for me.

She's been a drunk for as long as I can remember. Bourbon, mostly, but she also drinks wine, beer, and pretty much anything else with alcohol in it. When mom comes over, I hide the NyQuil and the paint thinner.

Mom has a bad temper. And I'm not just talking about your average bad temper. I'm talking vein-popping, eyebrow-furrowing, teeth-baring, red-faced, spit-flying, shreiking-at-the-top-of-her-lungs bad temper. When she gets angry, she reminds me of someone who is in need of an exorcism.

She's a small woman, maybe 5'3" and 110 pounds, with hollow, deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks. But she has the worst temper of anyone I've ever met. She's not the loudest, or the strongest, but she's the meanest. And when I was growing up, the worst part about mom was her unpredictability. She'd go for days, or weeks, at a time without one outburst; we kids could put a baseball through the window, and she'd just sweep the glass and tape the window, smiling all the while, and the next day I could drop a spoon on the kitchen floor, and she'd rip out a clump of my hair.

When mom was out of control, we just ran away. Out the door, down the street, anywhere but where she was. If we got away, we could let her cool off for two hours, and were usually all set. But sometimes she caught us. And when she did, pretty much anything was fair game: She'd slap, punch, pull hair, kick, scratch, and throw things, cursing all the way.

It was like clockwork: During holiday get-togethers, with a house full of aunts and uncles, mom would always find a reason to crack me across the mouth at the dinner table, in front of everyone.

The worst beating I ever got was when I was 11. Mom was supposed to be home to meet us boys when we got home from school each day, but she never was; if we were lucky, she'd get back around 6:00 and make us dinner. If we weren't lucky, we'd eat peanut butter and jelly in front of the TV.

Mom always told me to leave her stereo system alone. But the batteries on my Walkman had run out, or something, and I really wanted to listen to my Beatles tape.

Figuring she wouldn't be home for hours, I pop the cassette into her tape deck and groove along with "Dear Prudence" and "Back in the USSR".

In mid-"Twist and Shout," John Lennon's voice speeds up, chipmunk-style, and my heart skips a beat. I know what that sound means. I press the eject button, and my stomach sinks in horror as I see the contents of the tape unravelled everywhere, a thin, brown, shiny snake twisting around every capstan, wheel and pulley.

My fat fingers work furiously to untangle the tape as I shoot nervous, panting glances at the door, praying mom doesn't come home.

The doorknob shakes. The door opens. Mom stands there.

She stares at me for a moment, her mouth open.

"You little cocksucker.....you LITTLE COCKSUCKER!!!!" she screams, diving at me.

I turn to run. Too slow. She grabs my shoulder and spins me around, slapping me across the cheek. Her nails scratch me, leaving three thin bloody streaks. I cry out in pain.

"What did I tell you? WHAT THE FUCK DID I TELL YOU, YOU NO GOOD LITTLE SHIT!!!" She throws me to the floor, and I watch in mute terror as she removes her flip-flop and hits me with it, full-force, across the back of my neck, making a high THWACK! sound. Then she hits me again. And again, and again, until finally the sandal breaks in two, the top half dropping harmlessly to the floor. My neck throbs and stings, like a bad sunburn.

I lay on the floor, whimpering like a scared puppy, curled into a ball, my quivering hands in front of my face. "Please mom, please stop..."

"Little fucking cocksucker," she says, almost to herself. She grabs me by the hair and turns me over on my back.

Then she puts her cigarette out on my forearm. I am screaming.

I still have the scar.

A few minutes later, (I assume after changing her shoes) she storms out the door and doesn't come back for hours.

Dad usually got home from work around 8:30. Tonight, dad sees the scratches on my face, and the burn on my arm. He doesn't say a word; he just cleans them with alcohol and antibiotic ointment, hugs me and tells me it will be better soon.

Late that night, I am awakened by screaming.

I turn over. It's 11:22 by the bedside digital clock. I remember it like it was yesterday.

"Don't you EVER touch him again, you hear me?!" dad is saying. "You're out of control. You are OUT of fucking control!"

"You don't have any idea how hard it is," mom says. "I got three goddamn kids to take care of, and you're god knows where! It must be nice to have a little peace and quiet!"

"I'M the one earning the money, Louise. YOU'RE the one drinking it up!"

"Fuck you, you lousy son of a bitch!" I hear grunting and jostling, as if she is attacking him.

"Never again! You hear me?" dad is saying. "You touch him again, and I'll fucking kill you with my bare hands!"

I cry softly into my pillow. Dad never gets angry. I know you might not believe it now, but he is a really gentle person. I don't think he could ever hurt mom; I think he was just trying to scare her. He was definitely scaring me.

Mom never hit me again.

I don't want revenge. I don't want mom to "find out how it feels". I don't want to beat her up or scream at her. I just want her to leave me alone. For a long time, I have known what is best for me, and mom usually impedes that somehow. I'm better off with her not in my life, at least not as a parent.

She left home not too long after that incident, and part of me was sad to see her go. But I was also overjoyed. Even at 11, I knew that life would be more stable without her. I wouldn't have to shrink in fear as I walked through the front door and saw mom at the kitchen table, drinking hard liquor from a beer stein.

Leaving home was probably the only good parenting decision mom has ever made.

**********

It's Thursday. Mom's appointment is at 11:00. I meet Jenny at her mother's place at 9:30.

Mom is drunk. She's wearing a torn housedress of faded flowers and pale blue bathroom slippers that used to be fuzzy. Her hair is twisted into a sloppy bun, held in place with a chewed-up pencil.

"Aunt Louise," Jenn says, "Steve and I are really concerned about you. You're pretty jaundiced, and you seem very tired lately...."

"Jennifer, you're a nice girl," mom says, "but you dunno what you're talkin' about."

"Aunt Louise, you've been drinking a lot lately-"

"NEVER MIND my drinkin'," mom says, sneering.

This is stupid. Time to rip off the band-aid. "Mom, we're taking you to the doctor. Now."

"The hell you are!" she says, matter-of-factly.

My expression doesn't change. "Mom, one way or another, you're going. We're not leaving until you do, so you might as well-"

She lunges at me, her face contorted into a hideous mask of evil. I jump.

She puts a finger in my face. "You don't tell me what to do, you little son of a bitch!"

Don't you mean "Little Cocksucker"?

"I'm the mother here! I'M the mother! Not you! You don't tell me what the hell I can and cannot do..."

She is teetering in place, as if struggling to keep her balance.

"I do when you're killing yourself, mom. You have a family who cares about you, and we're gonna help you even if you don't want us to."

"If I wanna kill myself, it's MY goddamn business! No one else's!"

"It wouldn't take long," says Jenn. "The doctor is expecting us-"

"Just shut your mouth, honey," mom snaps. "Now you two get the hell outta here, because I'm not going anywhere!"

She storms off to a bedroom and slams the door; I hear the pop of the door lock.

Suddenly, classical music blares loudly from the room. One hundred twenty decibels is fine for Led Zeppelin; for Mozart, it's just creepy.

We wait. Five minutes go by, and the music continues, as loud as ever.

I bang on the door. "Mom, we're not leaving!"

Nothing.

I open the thin, gray metal cover mounted to the wall next to the kitchen, exposing the circuit breakers for the apartment. I find the one at the top marked "MAIN", and pull down hard on it.

Lights flick off. The refrigerator stops running. Digital clocks go dark. The music stops.

"jesus fucking christ!" we hear wafting faintly from mom's room.

I grab mom's purse off the kitchen chair, and again approach her door.

"Mom, if you don't come out, I'm not turning the power on. And I've got your purse, with all your drinking money in it."

"Gimme back my purse NOW!"

"You'll get it after your doctor's appointment!"

The door opens, slowly.

**********

Mom is sweet as pie to Dr. Patel; apparently, she thinks she can charm her way out of whatever tests he wants to run. "So doya have any kids?" she asks nervously as she lays down on the examination table.

Dr. Patel conducts a full examination. At several points, I look at Jenny and she is grimacing. Mom is not doing well, I gather.

"I vood like to doo a SEEtee scan," says Dr. Patel. He's got a very thick accent.

"A CITY scan?" says mom.

"No, a C.T. scan," says Jenn. "They want to take a picture of your liver to see if there's any internal damage."

"Ve also need to take a blood sample," he says.

"Oh GOD," mom says.

There are two cancellations for CT scans later today. We convince mom to take the earlier one.

"Steve, can I see you oustide," Jenn says.

We huddle a few steps past the door. "From what I could see, the exam went really bad. I think she's worse than I thought."

"Really?"

"They might not even let her out of the hospital."

"You mean they're going to admit her?"

"Maybe. It depends on the results of the CT scan. But it's possible she's going to need a transplant."

"OK."

"Steve, I think you better call your dad."

The sweetest lasagna I have ever eaten

"Please hold for Dan Johnson."

[Cue Jeopardy! theme]

One minute goes by. Then two.

"Steve! What have you learned today?" Dan Johnson says, finally.

To take a nap when I hear "Please hold for Dan Johnson," beeyotch.

"Preparation H is not toothpaste," I say.

"Hahahahahahhahahahaha!!!" He laughs his way into a coughing fit.

OK man, it wasn't that funny.

He finally catches his breath. "Steve, Steve, Steve. That was great. Do you mind if I use that in my keynote speeches?"

Dan goes around the country making keynote addresses at conventions. Nice work if you can get it.

"Sure. So what can I do for you?"

"Steve, are you still serious about taking this division manager's job?"

"Yes, very much."

"Good. Mike Stevens [chairman of the board] will be there tomorrow to have lunch with you. Have a good meeting and the job is yours."

"Wow! That's great news! Thank you, sir!"

"No problem at all. Mike's a very nice guy. You're going to do great. Good luck, Steve."

"Thanks."

Wednesday. Mike Stevens strides into the office. Except for his suit, he might as well be the copier repairman: Short, bald, and overweight. He barely warrants a glance from the employees walking by.

We chat for a while before heading out. "Hold my calls," I say to Lila as we walk past. I can see her icy glare from the corner of my eye.

I'm actually a bit depressed, and have been all day. I'll feel a twinge of sadness gnaw at me while staring at an Excel spreadsheet, or talking to an agent on the phone, and realize that I just caught a whiff of Lila's shampoo or saw a Post-it with her handwriting on it.

I am an asshole. Yeah, I have needs, and I don't apologize, and I even enjoy the pursuit of my "interests", but Lila didn't deserve to be hurt that way. All this time, she has never been anything but awesome to me. Someday I will appreciate her the way I should - if it's not too late.

Mike and I go to Contessa, an exclusive Italian restaurant. I have been dying for their lasagna all day.

"Dan Johnson is very fond of you," he says, sipping his Dewar's and water.

"I'm fond of him too."

"Don't know why he likes you so much," he says, smiling. "He really went out on a limb for you. You must laugh at his jokes."

"Yeah, some people will do anything to get ahead," I say. He laughs.

"Steve, I don't want you to feel like you're on a job interview. But I have concerns. I know you care about this company, and I know you're very talented, but the board of directors has worked very hard to get this company back to where it is now."

"I know."

"Forgive me for being blunt," he says, "but how do I know you aren't going to fuck this up?"

"I won't."

"No one plans on it," he says, smiling. "Of all the poor managers in the world, none of them admitting to being poor beforehand."

"So why ask then," I say, smiling.

He glares at me. OK, that was a little ballsy on my part.

"Tell me about the Jim Bentley incident," he says.

Jim Bentley is an agent in Florida. His clients were beseiged with letters from the Insurance Commissioner due to a bureaucratic snafu in our office.

"I had just taken over as director of operations," I begin.

"So you start out with an excuse!" he says, cutting me off. "Bad form, Steve. Is that what you're gonna do when I call you and ask why your margins are off? Make an excuse?"

This guy is quickly turning into a royal prick.

I smile. I won't let him rattle me. "That's good you don't want this to feel like an interview," I say.

"I mean it, Steve."

"I don't make excuses, only explanations," I say. "We sent out some paperwork to the state on the wrong forms. It happened under my watch. I take full responsibility. But that mistake was the result of a procedure that had probably been in place since before I was born. And I was the one who changed it."

He nods. This incident happened three years ago. If that's the only thing he has on me...

"I have to be honest with you, Steve. I have a bad feeling about this. District manager is a tough job. People burn out in this position. A lot of people don't make it. There's a lot of travel. A lot of late nights. This is the real deal, Steve. This isn't college."

"This isn't COLLEGE?" I say, squinting at him.

"Well, I, what I mean is...."

Yeah, I can give as good as I get. Ass licker.

"What I mean to say is, this is a tough job. Very tough."

"I can handle the job. My work is my life right now. I don't require much sleep. I enjoy travel. And this office's revenue has jumped considerably since I've been here."

"And I suppose that's all your doing?" He says, smiling.

"ALL mine? No. PARTLY mine? Yes."

He takes a folded-up piece of paper from his breast pocket. "Has Dan Johnson spoken to you about the compensation for this job? And the background check?"

Compensation? Did I get the job?!

"Yes he did." I tell him the salary that Dan quoted me.

He shakes his head NO. He unfolds the paper and places it in front of me. I almost choke on a crouton.

The number Dan gave me represented a $20,000 raise. Mike's number is almost a $35,000 raise. It's well over 100k. My house didn't cost much more than this!

"I like your number better," I finally manage.

He laughs out loud.

"Corporate legal is going to call you. We need to do a background check, and verify everything on your resume. There's no lies on your resume, are there?"

"Of course not."

"And you haven't been arrested, or in prison?"

"No."

"Good."

"I want you to spend a lot of time at corporate as you get started. I want you to get to know some people, learn some things."

"I appreciate that."

He extends his hand to me. His oxford shirt is blindingly white and pressed as smooth as marble. His initials are stitched into the cuff. His cuff links are black onyx; terribly expensive.

As I shake his well-manicured hand, it hits me: Mike is a big-time player, probably a millionaire many times over. Yeah, he's above me on the org chart, but we are "colleagues" now. I'm in his league. I'm a heavy hitter! ME! This overweight, dorito-chomping, video-game-playing dork is a legitimate corporate big shot.

"Congratulations," says Mike. "You're the youngest DM in the history of this company."

**********

I drop Mike off at the airport and head back to the office. I am happy over the promotion - ecstatic - but I'm more depressed than before. All I want to do is call Lila and tell her the news. And I can't.

It dawns on me that there is something I should have said to Lila that I did not; something that is very hard for me to say, some words that almost never cross my lips.

I buy a yellow rose on the way back to the office and put it under her windshield wiper. I tape a little card to it:

BABY I AM SO SORRY

Maybe someday she will forgive me.

Steverino's pre-emptive strike

Tuesday, August 24, 10:00am.

Lila walks into my office holding a thick glass vase, overflowing with an explosion of colorful flowers.

For a brief moment, I think they are from her. Then I see her deep frown, and I know it isn't so.

"You got some flowers," she says, and CLUNKS the vase down on my desk.

I read the card:

HOPE YOU ARE FEELING BETTER. LOVE, KELLY

I can be pretty dense sometimes. What does she mean? I'm not sick, I think.

Then I realize it: Rob beats up Steve. Rob tells Kelly about beating. Kelly laughs a lot about beating, and sends flowers to rub it in a little.

Translation: If there were a bitch hall of fame, Kelly would have a wing named after her.

I drop the card in the shredder: Same thing I do whenever I get flowers. But now, I've got a bigger problem: Lila.

Lila is going to want to know who the flowers came from, and even if she does not ask, I owe her an explanation. I could just lie about it, but I don't like to lie unless I absolutely have to. Besides, it's getting pretty obvious that Kelly is still stuck on this revenge trip, and God only knows what she will do next. I can't assume she will just quit needling me, though she might; next time, she may call Lila, or show up at my office and make a scene. Who knows?

I can't risk Kelly talking to Lila. It's not entirely likely, but possible. I think I have to tell Lila about Kelly.

Sure, there will be a scene. And if I handle it wrong, Lila will leave me forever. It will be dangerous. But, if I go to Lila before someone else does, I will have the advantage of having spoken first.

Never underestimate this advantage, guys. You tell your story, then days or weeks later, someone else tells theirs, and if the stories don't match, the person who spoke last looks like a liar. Human nature.

If Kelly and Lila speak to each other, there will be no way I can deny fucking Kelly. I am sure that, with her finely-tuned senses, Kelly noticed some freckle at the bottom of my scrotum that I didn't even know I had, and she'll be able to prove that she's been with me. I've got to admit to doing it, at least once.

And that, my friends, is ALL I will admit to: Once.

I'll tell Lila that I screwed Kelly once, just once, and better still, I'll tell her it happened during the 3 or 4 days in early June when Lila and I were fighting (you will recall she demanded, in mid-ass fuck, that I tell her I love her, and I was none too pleased). It's the Ross-and-Rachel, we-were-on-a-break thing. Of course, it took Rachel about five years to buy it, but then again, Ross always was a dork, wasn't he?

Lila will be pissed. Really pissed. She won't speak to me for a while, I know. But she'll come around in a week or so, I believe.

If I confess to doing it once, Kelly could still come around and tell Lila everything. But how the hell can she prove that it happened more than once? At that point, it would be her word against mine. And I like my chances there.

The only way I could see this blowing up is if Kelly has some evidence to incriminate me. But I seriously doubt that.

Guys, if any of you are getting some french fries on the side, make sure you are extremely careful. If you go back and read my blog, you will see that there are no love notes, no greeting cards, no e-mails, no voice mail messages, no evidence of any kind. That's no accident.

I've never given anything to Kelly in my own handwriting. I would be surprised if she even knew what my writing looked like. And if I have left her a voice mail message in the past, which I doubt, it was of the four-word variety ("Kelly. Steve. Please call." CLICK!) Notice there is no mention of what I am calling about, no information at all; just a request to call back. If Kelly saves a message like that, and plays it for Lila, so what? It just proves that I called her. For all anyone knows, Kelly could have been harassing me, and I could have been calling to tell her to stop.

I always cringe when I hear cheating guys leaving voice mail messages: "Hey Mary, it's John. It's Tuesday at 3:30. Just wanted to make sure we were still on for tonight," etc. etc. If anything ever goes wrong, they've basically left a bloody knife at a murder scene with their fingerprints all over it. All it would take is ONE message like that to expose my whole charade.

It seems like I've covered all the bases. But this is still fraught with danger. Something could go wrong - anything, really. I'm not sure exactly what's going to happen, but I know that it is time to confess to Lila.

7:00. Lila and I are sitting in my car in the 7-11 parking lot. The sun is a fiery orange, setting right down the middle of my windshield.

"Do you remember in June, when we had our fight? Our big fight?"

"mm-hmm," she says.

"I did something I'm not proud of," I say.

Her face goes white. "What did you do, Steve?"

"I had sex with someone else."

I believe in getting right to the point. Say it quick and get it over with, just like ripping off a band-aid. And guys, if you are ever going to cop to something like this, be as clinical as possible: You "had sex" with the other woman, you didn't "make love" to her. And whatever you do, don't confess to enjoying it. Remember, it was sheer torture. Wink, wink.

"Who is she?"

"Nobody. Nobody you'd know."

"Were you safe?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you LOVE her? Are you still seeing her?"

"NO! GOD no, Lila! I don't care about her at all! And no, I'm not seeing her!"

This is going as well as I could have hoped. If I have to lie, I like to mix it with a lot of truth, and so far I've answered her questions 100% honestly.

"So it was just that once, while we were broken up?"

"Yes."

OK, there goes my streak.

"Was that her that sent you the flowers?"

"Yeah. She said she was thinking of me."

"So what did you do?"

"I told her to leave me alone."

This is going extremely well. A little uncomfortable, yes, but no screaming, no hitting, no storming out of the car in a huff. If I get away with this, it's going to be a major coup.

"Steve, are you lying to me? Are you sleeping with her?"

"No!"

Her bottom lip starts to stick out, so thick and succulent that I have all I can do not to kiss her.

She starts to cry. Then she starts to bawl. She covers her face, sobbing loudly.

"You are such a DICK!" she says, through her cupped hands.

So much for getting away with murder.

Good news, bad news, FUBAR news

Your eyes do not deceive you: Steve is posting on a weekend.

I'm also angry. I just banged out an entire post, went to save it, and Blogger hung for about 10 minutes (as usual), then crashed, and I lost the whole thing. At 20 after 5 in the morning, it's not a good idea to piss of Steverino.

Do any of you guys play fantasy football? Some dude e-mailed me telling me about a new league, in which the object is to draft the WORST players, not the best. The worse they do, the better your team does. It sounds pretty cool - it's called the National FUBAR League. Check it out!

The good news is, I am posting. The bad news is, there will be no new stories today.... well, maybe a few teasers.

But first, a brief interlude.

I love listening to the rumors about myself. Here are a few:

1. Steve is actually a girl ("No guy notices that much detail / writes like that")
2. Steve is actually author Danielle Steel
3. Steve is actually married with a child
4. Steve is actually several people ("No one person could write that much")

If you've heard any others, please let me know.

I normally don't respond to this kind of stuff, but if you want to find out my gender, hit the audio link and see (hear) for yourself.

And now, because I love you readers so much, a few teasers.

In the last week:

1. I met with the Chairman of the Board, and got my ass reamed
2. Lila found out about Kelly
3. I got some really good news
4. I got some really bad news. Really bad.

Oh and one more thing: Steverino t-shirts: Coming soon.........

A strikeout and a grand slam

Friday, August 20. 9:30pm. I get dressed (black pants, grey shirt), spray on too much cologne and head to T.G.I. Fridays.

Jenny is at a table by the bar with three attactive brunettes in their late 20's. She is holding a hiball glass.

I walk up behind her, grab the glass and take a sip. It's a Black Russian.

She turns around. "STEEEEEEEEVE!" She hugs me as if trying to ward off frostbite. She pulls back and stares at my face. She is drunk. "You made it!" she announces.

"You guys! This is Steve! That's Deb, and Patty, and Linda," she says, poking each girl's shoulder in turn.

"So THIS is Steve!" Deb says. "Jenn won't shut up about you," she says. "Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve!"

"He IS cute, though," Patty says, smiling.

OK, is anybody sober here?

"Jenn is totally in lust with you. She needs HELP," Deb says.

"DEB!" Jenn says. "Steve, we're going for a walk." She takes my hand and pulls me out the door.

Thanks, Deb. You just saved me the 45 minutes of conversation it usually takes to get to this point!

Jenn pulls me out the door and across the parking lot to a strip mall. We stroll down the covered walkway, still holding hands, perusing the dimly lit storefront windows with their back-to-school-clad mannequins. A light breeze blows, wafting the flowery scent of her hair to me every now and again.

"My friends can be such asses," she says, finally.

"Still, it's good to know you're in lust with me."

"I didn't say 'lust'," she says.

"Uh-huh." I stop and look at her. She gazes ruefully up at me, like a little girl about to be punished. I kiss her.

Jenn is a really good kisser. Her lips barely touch you, almost like she's trying to tickle you. And the very tip of her tongue slips into your mouth, then disappears, then comes back, teasing you mercilessly.

Minutes go by. The kissing esclates. The smacking gets louder, the tongues go deeper, the hands pull tighter.

We stop and hug for a minute. She pulls away and presses her lips to me again, harder now. "Mmmmmmmmmm," she says. She is getting horny.

I reach up and let my hand brush against her tit. It's easy to be too aggressive here; guys, make that first tit-grab look like it was an accident. Don't go honking her horns too hard right away. Remember, you're not milking a cow here, gang...

She doesn't move, doesn't react. This is exactly what I want in this situation. If I get this far without the girl stopping me, it usually means I am getting laid.

I am always telling you guys to try to get the girl away from the party, or the bar, or wherever the crowd happens to be, and now you can see why: No chick is going to play THIS kind of tonsil hockey in front of other people. But now that Jenny is, all I have to do is get her home and this is a done deal. I think.

If I have my 'druthers, I always screw a girl at HER house. You all know how I HATE waking up with a chick next to me; also, if it's not someone you are interested in long-term, or if you aren't sure what the HELL she is going to look like in the morning, it's much better this way. When you're at her house, you can basically get up and haul ass out of there anytime you want, and you're almost assured she won't try to follow you.

But Jenn is not offering, at least not yet, and I am so frigging horny that it's ridiculous. How long has it been for me, a week? We are both running very warm. It's time to go for broke.

"Let's get outta here," I say, in between kisses.

"Huh?"

"Let's go to your house," I say.

She pulls away from me and shakes her head NO. "Next time, Steve."

Yeah, next time. My blue balls don't like that answer.

**********

Saturday, August 21st. I cranked out two after coming home from Friday's last night, and another one this morning, and I still feel as though I'm about to burst.

Lila has made arrangements to come over around 4 today and stay overnight. Her mother thinks she is staying over at a friend's house.

I pick up Lila at her house. She is wearing torn jeans and a scarf around her hair.

She plops herself into my car. "It's been WAY too long," she says.

"I know. I am fucking DYING," I say.

"Are we gonna make it to your house," she asks.

"Barely. But I want to," I say. "This car is too small."

"I have a surprise for you," she says.

My tires scream to a halt in the driveway. We dash through the front door, pulling our clothes off as if they were on fire. She is bent over, lowering her panties, when I pick her up and sling her over my shoulder.

I carry her to the bedroom and flip her down on the bed. I had forgotten how tight her body looks naked. I am desperately, urgently hard.

She fingers herself. "Do you like your present," she says, pulling her hand away.

She is totally shaved.

She licks her fingers and runs them over her bald pussy. I grab her feet and pull them apart, slowly, rubbing the back of my cock against her. It's completely smooth - like jerking off with a silk pillow.

I kiss her. She wraps her arms around me, pulling me closer, shoving her tongue into my mouth. She pulls away from me, just slightly; we are still nose to nose.

"Steve, I want you to fuck my brains out."

I look down and watch as my shaft slips effortlessly into her. Our hips move in perfect unison, together, apart, together, apart. I watch in horny fascination as the hairless flesh of her vagina stretches against my girth while I penetrate her.

"Oh my god, lover, oh you are sooo fucking good, I love you so much, I missed you..."

"Oh yeah?" I breathe.

"I missed having your big hard cock inside me," she says.

I'm thrusting harder now. She crosses her ankles behind my back. Her tits bounce in perfect rhythm with our fucking.

When I am this horny, I usually have a lot less control over my orgasms. But whacking it earlier today seems to have done the trick.

I pull out and flip her over onto her back. Her round, perfect ass sticks up at me, smooth and pale white.

I pull her hips toward me. I take my cock in my hand and slide it up underneath her, slowly searching for her opening. I grab her hips, driving deeply into her.

"Hooooooooooly fucking shit," she moans. She stands up on her knees, turning around and kissing me. She misses my mouth, mostly, her wet lips coating my cheek and nose with warm spit. I'll take that over a kiss any day.

She collapses down on the bed, her naked ass still in the air. I pull out of her and release the full force of my orgasm, spraying her back with thick white cum.

I lay down next to Lila for a long time. We fall asleep.

When I wake up again, it's dark outside. I look at my clock. 8:30. We've been asleep for hours. It's strange to say, but I was glad to see her next to me. So much for her making me dinner, though.

We pick up some Chinese takeout for dinner, and laugh all the way home at the guy's accent "Just a rittle ronger," he had said when we arrived early.

We take the long way home, and I show her some houses that I like to look at, places that had given me ideas for my own house. I show her the old cemetery ("I'm sure it's beautiful during the day, but it's creepy at night," she says). We eat our sweet and sour chicken in front of the TV, swordfighting with chopsticks and laughing at Seinfeld reruns.

I wake up the next morning with Lila curled up in a little ball next to me, like a cat. I tiptoe out the front door and jog my appointed rounds. When I return, she is still dozing, her hair sprayed crazily around her, her feet clad in half-length socks.

I sit next to her and run my finger along her cheek. Her eyes blink open, and she takes my hand. "Hey," she says, in her scratchy morning voice.

What was it, again, that was so bad about waking up next to a chick?

Jenny and Louise (and Lila and Marie)

It's Friday. I have been thinking about Jenny a lot lately. I should call....

My phone rings. Watch this be Jenny, I think.

"Hello?"

"Hi, hon, it's Jenn!" Sure enough. I do that all the time. Sometimes I think I am psychic.

"Hey!"

"Steve, I really need to talk to you."

Let me guess. You are horny as hell for me, and you want to ride me like the dirty little cowgirl that you are?

"Sure. What's up?"

"I'm beginning to think your mother is REALLY ill."

Of course. Mom is ALWAYS really ill. Mom is always suffering from some exotic ailment which previously only afflicted the Aboriginees of New Zealand. She's always on her death bed, parting her lips and feebly drawing her final breath before her head plops lifelessly on the pillow and her soul departs for that neverending open bar in the sky. And she usually makes a miraculous, Ripley's-Believe-It-Or-Not recovery around 9:30 each night, at which time she walks a mile down the road to the local watering hole and slurps bourbon until closing time.

"Yeah, well, don't worry. I'm sure she'll be feeling better around happy hour."

"This is serious, Steve. She's very jaundiced. And the itching...."

"So give her some Oil of Olay. Hopefully, she won't drink it."

"Steve!"

"Ok. So what are you looking to do?"

"I spoke to Dr. Patel at the hospital. He's agreed to see her. Does your mom have health insurance?"

"Yeah. It's through my dad."

"If you get me the name of your mother's primary care doctor, I'll call and get a referral."

"I'll do it."

"And could you help me take your mom to Dr. Patel next week? When I suggested it, she got really angry, so I think I'm gonna need some help."

"Yes, I'll help you."

"Thank you, Steve."

"I haven't seen you in a while," I say.

"I know. So busy," she says.

"What are you doing later?"

"My girlfriends and I are going to Friday's," she says. "How about you?"

"Crashing. Tough week."

"Sorry. Well, if you're awake, stop in and say hi."

"OK."

Oh yeah, I'll be awake, honey.

1:15. I come back from lunch and walk past Lila's desk. "I need to see you in my office," I say.

I haven't had a conversation with Lila in quite some time. I actually miss talking to her.

She breezes through my door. She's wearing a tight pink skirt and a white blouse. It's one of the outfits she bought with her advance at the beginning of the summer.

"How's it going on the file room project?"

"Six boxes left."

"Why don't you get Judy and Thea started moving into the file room."

"Steve, there's six boxes left."

"Move them into the regular file room. There's room there for six boxes. Just don't forget to finish the project."

"I won't."

"Lila?"

"Hm?"

"I just want you to know I'm proud of you. You're way under budget for the project!"

"Thank you!" she says, smiling. She is staring at me.

"What?"

"Is it true?"

"Is WHAT true?"

"That Ross is getting fired and you're getting his job?"

"Is THAT the rumor?"

She nods. "mm-hmm."

Some of the people in this office are truly retarded.

"This is just between you and me, ok?" I say.

She leans in closer. Her hair spills down, hanging six inches from my nose. The green apple smell caresses me.

"Ross is getting promoted to corporate for that new M & A position," I whisper.

"But that was YOUR position," she says quietly.

"WAS."

"So are you getting Ross's job?"

"Yes."

She stands up, her mouth slightly open, her eyes widening. "Steve, this is incredible! This is huge!!"

"It's not 100% official, but it looks pretty good."

"No matter what, I am proud of you," she says.

"Thanks."

"I wanna buy you dinner. I wanna MAKE you dinner," she says.

"You don't have to."

"I WANT to. I am SO proud of you, baby."

"Even if I don't get it?" I ask.

"You will. You'll find a way. You always do."

"Close my door," I say.

She closes the door, then walks over and sits in my lap.

"I really missed you this week," I say.

"Me too," she says. "Can I make you dinner tomorrow night?"

"Yeah."

She reaches back and grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers.

Suddenly I can't think of any place I'd rather be than roaming the aisles of the supermarket with Lila, watching her Daisy Duke-clad ass swing rhythmically from side to side, knocking cans off the shelves. It might be nice not to shop alone...

Must....fight...thoughts...of.....monogamy.....

I slip my hand under her blouse and run my hand along her bra. It's soft and satiny.

I feel her tongue, hot on my ear, then my cheek. I turn to face her. She kisses me. I close my eyes and focus on the wetness of her luscious lips.

"Can I stay over tomorrow night," she says.

"I might have to be bribed," I say.

"You will be," she says.

The door is unlocked, I think. Lila forgot to set the deadbolt.

"Go lock the door," I say. I am gonna fuck her brains out. And that's just a warmup for tomorrow.

She gets up and reaches for the door. Someone knocks.

"Come in," I say.

The door opens. It's Marie from accounting. "Steve, we've got a huuuuge problem," she says. I'm pretty sure I can smell the nicotine on her breath from across the room.

In thirty seconds, I went from "about to get laid" to "smelling ass breath."

Lila and I exchange a smile. I silently mouth the words RAIN CHECK as I walk by.

Steverino, wimp extraordinaire

I'm not used to getting my ass kicked. Or my abdomen, as the case may be.

And Rob definitely kicked my ass. It was embarrassing. If I ever fight him again, I'm going to give him a MUCH harder time.

After my beating, and my bitch-like crying jag, I came home and sat quietly in my family room, wondering how I got involved in such a convoluted, soap opera-like situation.

I know how I got here. By doing the same things I always do. By being greedy. By pushing the envelope, not knowing when to stop, or, if I do know when to stop, not caring enough to do so. By not respecting anyone's feelings except my own. By being careless. And most of all, by continuing to hook up with Kelly, even after I knew how volatile she was.

I suppose I should feel guilt, or remorse. Or the urge to start over again, to try to lead a less chaotic life, more respectful of others' sensitivities. I suppose I should, but I don't.

I keep coming back to two things: I should have been more careful, and what I did to Rob.

I was careless. I didn't delete the messages on the BlackBerry. I stayed with Kelly, even after I saw what a psychopathic, unpredictable shrew she was. I did it because I wanted to prove that I could, and because she was there. That was a mistake.

And that's why I'm really down on myself: Because I was sloppy. Not because I hurt anyone.

Does that mean I'm a heartless bastard? Yeah, maybe. But all that stuff from Rob about loving me like a brother was a lot of hooey. I see Rob maybe 3 times a year. Or less. We don't e-mail or talk on the phone. We're not close. What I did was still wrong, of course, but Rob exaggerated our relationship, big time.

And as far as doing Taylor, I am reminded of what I always say about screwing married women: If she is emotionally capable of opening her legs to another man, she's either got too many issues to be married, or she's very unhappy. Either way, I didn't create the situation. Why should I beat myself up over it?

Having said that, I won't soon forget that look on Rob's face. I could see the pain in his eyes. He felt betrayed. Even when he was enraged, grabbing for my lapels, I could see the vulnerability, the wounded look of a very young boy. I guess I can't blame him.

Rob didn't deserve what I did. I feel for him the same way you feel for a bird walking along the side of the road with a broken wing: It's detached sympathy. Something that's got nothing to do with me.

I know, I know, it DOES have something to do with me. But detached is what I feel.

I hate apologizing. What, exactly, is the point? Usually, we only apologize after we've been caught doing something. Convicted criminals get leniency from judges by issuing apologies - AFTER they've committed the crime, attempted to get away with it, and been arrested and convicted. Isn't the proper time to apologize BEFORE that happens?

Sometimes people really are sorry, but usually an apology is not an expression of regret so much as a plea to go easy on us.

Sometimes apologies make the offended party even angrier. "You should have thought of that BEFORE!" they will shout, or "You weren't sorry before I found out about it!" Now, in addition to being aggrieved, they are pissed about our disingenuousness.

And apologies make you look weak. I'm certainly no Reagan fan, but he used to say, "Never explain, never apologize." I can see why. If something gets screwed up, and the president says he is sorry, would it end there? Of course not! The questions would REALLY start to pour in at that point: "What, specifically, did you do wrong?" "How did this happen? Are there potential other mistakes that could be made?" "Do you think your predecessor would have made the same mistake?" and so on.

Yeah, everyone makes mistakes. But somehow, admitting it tends to set off a feeding frenzy.

Despite all that, I think I should apologize to Rob. I really do feel badly that he is hurt, and I know now that I should have turned down Taylor, as hard as that would have been. If I am in that situation again with another girl, which isn't likely, I don't think I would go through with it. To me, that means I have learned something.

I know he won't accept my apology. No one who is truly pissed off ever does. And, though he might hit me, I need to do it in person. Apologizing over the phone seems wimpy, and I've been quite enough of a wimp already, thank you.

I'm not going to beg his forgiveness. I'm going to speak my piece - once - and get out. Some people make the mistake of apologizing over and over, throwing themselves on the mercy of their victims, looking pathetic. I may be a selfish asshole, but I'll never be pathetic. Ever.

It's Thursday. I take the day off from work and creep around the house in my sweats, popping ibuprofen and working from my home computer. Around 2:30, I take a nice dip in the hot tub and go for a walk, and I am feeling better. Apparently, nothing is broken. He he he...

The walk really clears my head.

I'm not going to seek revenge against Kelly. The only thing I want from her is to leave me alone, and I think she may do so - IF I don't keep trying to one-up her or even the score. She may not be done with me yet, though: She may try to screw things up with Lila, but I am pretty sure she has no idea who Lila is. She's never been to my office, and has never called me there as far as I know. And of course, Rob doesn't know Lila at all. Still, I have to be very careful.

My phone rings. It's the office.

"Hello?"

"Steve. Ross."

"Hey, Ross."

"I just got off the phone with Dan Johnson."

"Oh yeah? And?"

"I know he told you the news. How do you feel?" He seems happy for me. Giddy, even. But I know better.

"I'm cautiously optimistic, Ross."

"The board of directors is going to be very wary of hiring such a young DM [district manager], you know."

Yeah, especially one you've been trash talking.

"I figured that."

"I put in a good word with Mike Stevens [chairman of the board] for you."

Great! So, combined with the BAD word you put in earlier, I'm back to zero!

"Thanks, Ross."

"He wants to meet you. Next week."

"Ok, great!"

"That's a good sign, Steve. If he wasn't considering it, he'd never make the trip out here."

"I know."

"I'm gonna do everything I can to get you this promotion, Steve. I told Stevens that you are the man for the job."

"Thanks, Ross."

Funny how nice Ross is being now that he got what he wanted. Prick.

**********

Friday afternoon around 6. I decide to go to Rob's house to apologize.

6:40. I knock on his door. As long as he doesn't hit me, or slam the door in my face, it will be a victory.

No answer. I knock again.

The door opens.

His eyes meet mine, and his face falls, sagging like melted wax.

"Rob, I'm sorry. I'm never gonna forgive myself for what I did-"

OK, so I'm laying it on a little thick.

"Wait here, Steve," he says, and walks back into the house.

I wonder if he's going to get a gun. Where is Tyvek when you need it?

Two minues pass. He comes back to the door with a framed 4 X 6 photo and hands it to me.

It's a snapshot of Rob and I with our arms around each other, laughing and raising beer bottles in the air. I have never seen the picture before; I never even knew it existed. It's a picture of two really close friends having the time of their lives.

Fuck. I really did hurt him, didn't I?

"Keep it," Rob says. "Stay the fuck away from me. And don't tell me you're sorry. You're not sorry you did it. You're sorry you got CAUGHT."

"Sometimes you have to get your ass kicked to learn a lesson," I say.

"Regardless," he says.

"Look, Rob. I know I fucked up, and you'll never be my friend again. But don't take it out on Taylor-"

"So take her back? Why? Because YOU say so?"

"Just ask her what happened. Ask her to explain. Kelly's a fucking psycho. Get Taylor's side of it."

"Have a nice life, Steve," Rob says, and slams the door.

Hi, my name is Steve, and I am a Twinkie® addict

A while back, I intimated that my brothers call me "Twinkie," and I have been meaning to explain why that is.

For as long as I can remember, I have had a thing for Twinkies. And I don't mean just a casual thing. I mean a richer-or-poorer, death-do-us-part, my-dick- gets-hard-with-just-the-mention-of-your-name thing.

It really was almost sexual for me, too, the Twinkie-eating; there was something strangely erotic about that soft, moist, golden sponge cake (Since I'm not gay, I'll skip the part about the creamy white goo). And it felt naughty to flip the Twinkie over and see those holes at the bottom. Knowing that they used the holes to inject the vanilla cream was akin to watching a girl masturbate without her seeing you: You were privy to a dirty secret!

Mom used to keep a box of Twinkies in the kitchen pantry. Third shelf from the top, left side.

I loved that box. I used to dream about that box during gym class while frozen in agony between my 3rd and 4th sit-ups. And as soon as I burst through the front door after school, I made a beeline for that box, hungrily grabbing for its cellophane-wrapped, sugary, cream-filled heroin with my plump, trembling fingers.

I was a fat kid. I could eat. REALLY eat. And unaffected by "adult" concepts, like stopping eating when you are so full you could puke, I just kept on stuffing my face until someone dragged me away from the table, usually by force. So if left to my own devices, I could devour an entire box of Twinkies in one sitting, and did a couple of times. Hence, the need for some limits.

One Twinkie after school, one at lunch, one after dinner. That was the rule. And mom used to count the twinkies, too, to make sure I didn't cheat. But let me tell you, there were plenty of sleepless nights where I stood, staring salivatingly at that third shelf, conjuring up ways to talk my way out of having the crime pinned on me:

"Well, mom, I don't like to rat on my brothers, but I'm pretty sure I saw white creamy stuff on Chris's pillow."

"Did you buy a dog? 'Cause I heard dogs loooove Twinkies!"

"Dad's been acting really strange lately. And he seems to have packed on a few pounds. Maybe you ought to check his car for cellophane!"

"Don't they make something like 15 million Twinkies a day? I mean, how can we be SURE there were 12 Twinkies in that box to begin with? I'm serious, mom, I think we ought to write our congressman!"

I used to time myself. I could eat a Twinkie in 12 seconds, and that's when I wasn't in a hurry; when I was REALLY jonesing, I wasn't concerned about a second hand on a clock. But quickies weren't usually my style.

I liked to romance those sexy little things. I used to make love to my Twinkies. I would slowly bite the round, bulbous end, exposing a dime-sized, cream-filled hole in the middle, then languidly loll the golden baked perfection around in my mouth, sending my taste buds into a sensual nirvana, before gulping the first bit down.

Then I would turn to my half-naked Twinkie, beckoning me with her white creamy insides wide open, begging me to have my way with her.

And have my way I would.

I would plunge my fat juicy tongue into her glob of white sticky heaven, licking up, then down, then around, in slow, cursive letter o's, gently, deeply, probing her insides.

After greedily gulping down her sugary nectar, I would bite the Twinkie again, and again ravage her with my tongue, sucking and licking and slurping every drop of fluffy white goodness.

And then, when neither of us could stand it anymore, I would cram the remaining cake into my gaping mouth, closing my eyes, letting Hostess's orgasmic magic overload the Twinkie pleasure centers of my brain.

Ahem.

But none of that is why they call me Twinkie.

There was a way of skirting the one-Twinkie-after-dinner rule: I would simply forego my after-school Twinkie, and defer it until after supper.

On the fateful day in question, I had, in fact, skipped my after-school snack, and after a sickening, bilous batch of barely-edible beef stew, I pull two little slices of heaven out of the box on the third shelf.

The last two Twinkies left.

I finish one, and mom announces that we have to go to the store. Now. They are closing in a half hour, you see.

Mom grabs me by the collar and tosses me into the car. But I have the presence of mind to slip the uneaten Twinkie into my pocket. No WAY I am waiting until I get home to eat it.

Mom takes me downtown to to buy a new pair of school pants. She is always buying me new pants; my ever-expanding gut demands it.

"Oh no!" mom says as we walk through the store. "There's a hole in your ass!"

"What?"

"You ripped your pants! Right in the ass! How long have you been walking around that way?!"

"I dunno."

Mom hands me a perfectly hideous pair of powder-blue Chino's. "Try these on," she says.

I walk into a dressing room, drop my pants and start to put on the new ones. I lose my balance, and quickly plant a stubby, tree-trunk leg to the floor to catch myself. My foot lands right on my old pants; specifically, on the right-hand pocket containing the Twinkie. The squishy, sinking feeling is almost enough to make me cry: I killed it! What would Twinkie The Kid say?

I walk out of the dressing room in my stockinged feet, showing Mom the new pants. She tucks three fingers between the blue waistline and my bulging gut. "Perfect," she says.

Yeah, the pants were ugly, and mom knew it. But they met the two pants-buying criteria for the 11-year-old Steverino:

1. They fit; and,
2. They were under $10.

And #1 was optional.

"Go get your old pants," mom says. "Maybe I can fix them so your brother can wear them."

Not likely, unless "fixing them" involves drinking 6 wine coolers and impaling your thumb with a needle.

I throw the pants in the back seat, and we return home.

A couple of hours later, Chris and I are playing Nintendo, when The Urge kicks in.

My slutty tongue pops out, licking my puffy, fat-boy lips in search of another Twinkie fix. But I had already eaten my dessert....

Wait! I never ate it! It's still in the pocket of my old pants!

I rush out to mom's car and open the back door. It's sweltering in there. I frantically poke around the pockets, finally extracting the flat, yellow, plastic-wrapped Reason For My Existence.

I bring the Twinkie back inside, and grab a pair of scissors. I've done this before.

I cut off the top 1/2 inch of plastic wrap and begin to squeeze the compressed Twinkie into my mouth, bit by bit, lapping and gulping like a hungry swine.

"Ewwwwwww, GROSS!" Chris says.

I turn to look at him. The final glob of steaming hot Twinkie-pancake slips out of the plastic and onto the carpet. The dirty, dingy, old, hair-filled, hasn't-been-shampooed-since-the-Johnson-administration, carpet.

I scoop up the yellowish-white blob and eat it.

And my brother throws up.