Chapter 3: Stretch Goals

Chapter 1 begins here

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SugarKookie: Good morning :-D :-D

RedFoxx85: how was it??????

SugarKookie: took me to his friends 40th bday party

RedFoxx85: hung with the old dudes eh

SugarKookie: i swear i was the oldest girl there

RedFoxx85: lol

SugarKookie: huge buffet, chinese food, sushi, open bar

SugarKookie: he got drunk, i had to drive him home

SugarKookie: in his lincoln navigator :-)

RedFoxx85: nfw

SugarKookie: way

SugarKookie: felt like i was driving a tank

RedFoxx85: so you drove him home...

RedFoxx85: and?!

SugarKookie: so how was your night O:-)

RedFoxx85: what happened????!!!

I can't read any more. All I want is to walk into the middle of that party and look at her, stare at her face endlessly until she realizes what she is doing. If I could just see her, talk to her, I know she would come to her senses. But I am powerless to stop any of this. It's in the past.

Now, I can only sit passively and experience every excruciating second of her betrayal, knowing that, although the pain is fresh, whatever has happened is done and over with. I can't change it any more than I can change yesterday's weather.

I sleepwalk through my day at work, watching myself like a disinterested third party as the hours melt away in a blur of phone calls and meetings. I go through the motions, say all the proper things at the correct times, but none of it affects me whatsoever. It's like eating a meal that I cannot taste.

"You still here?" Todd asks at 6:30.

"Yep," I sigh.

"What's wrong, Eric?"

I want to tell him. I want to open myself up and pour out every ounce of pain in my body. I want to scream aloud that I do not deserve this, and then I want to collapse into a blob on the floor, sobbing like a widow. I've been bottling this up for too long. I need to talk to someone.

But Todd is my boss. What would he think of me if he knew how upset I was? Would I seem like the kind of person who cannot keep his personal life under control?

"Nothing. Good night, Todd."

* * *

If I go home, I'm just going to end up checking Emily's IMs. I'd rather be anywhere else.

I drive aimlessly, angrily changing the radio station every time a love song comes on, until my car finds its way to my mother's house.

"Oh good. You can help me hang a picture," she says.

"Did you call the landlord to have that carpet stretched in your living room?" she asks as I hammer a picture hook into the wall.

"Not yet."

"You really should call. That carpet is buckled. Buckled!" she hisses, showing two rows of beaver-like teeth.

"I know, mom."

"Ugh. It's horrible! I don't know how you can stand that gigantic... bump in the floor," she says, running her hand over an imaginary mountain.

The bump is half an inch high. Actually, half an inch would be a lot. Coming over here was a mistake. Mom does not have much to do these days, so every mundane issue is magnified to 10,000 times its normal size.

In a way, it's good that the Emily thing is happening, because serious problems make me see just how insignificant the buckled carpets of the world truly are. If I can just resolve this, somehow, I'll be the most nauseatingly happy guy you've ever met.

"That picture is crooked! Look at it, it's all cockeyed!"

I push up on the bottom right corner. The picture moves a millimeter or two.

"Good?"

"It's all wrong. It's all wrong there. We've got to move it, honey."

Suddenly it hits me. I'll win Emily over. I'll woo her, just like I did when we first met. I'll surprise her with no-reason gifts, take her on romantic getaways, and lavish her with fawning attention. Why didn't I think of this before?

They say that men cheat for sex, and women cheat for love. After three years, maybe I'm taking her for granted. Maybe she's had one too many drive-thru dinners, and she's frustrated. I've been busy at work lately, but if I'm going to be serious about my relationship, I need to make it more of a priority. That's just what I'm going to do. Maybe this will work, and maybe it won't, but if we break up, I don't want it to be because of mistakes I made.

"Higher. Higher, Eric!" mom is screaming. "Hello! You're a million miles away!"

"Sorry, I was just--"

"Give me that," she snaps, snatching the picture out of my hand. "Never mind. I'll handle it."

"I think I'm gonna take off, mom."

"Damn carpet is two feet off the ground," she mutters to herself as the door closes behind me.

Next...Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

Chapter 1 begins here

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RedFoxx85: u still at the office?

SugarKookie: no he told me to go home and he would come by around 6:30ish

RedFoxx85: hes late...typical man lol

There's nothing for me to wonder about anymore. Emily is cheating. It must be a guy she works with, but I have no idea which one. I don't know her coworkers.

I want to talk to her, hear her say my name, listen to her voice to find out if it sounds different somehow. I want to tell her I am amazed by her, that she inspires me, that she has done so since the moment I first saw her on that Tuesday morning three years ago.

All Emily's ever had to do was tell me what she wanted, and I have gotten it for her. I want to make every single one of her dreams come true. Maybe all I have to do is remind her of that.

I call her. "Hi, gorgeous," I say.

"I'm really busy. I have this huge project to do for work. I'm probably gonna be up late."

My heart gallops, and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. She's lying to me, right this very second. Obviously, there is no project, and yet she said so with frightening ease. If I hadn't known better, I'd have believed her in a second. Since when does dishonesty come so easily to her?

For a frantic moment I can't think of anything at all to say, but then I catch my breath and realize that this is my chance to tell her exactly how much she means to me. I need to--

"Eric?"

"Yeah. I'm here. I just wanted to tell you you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"You're sweet. But I really gotta go."

I should hang up, but there is a question that I need to ask, one that I probably don't want to know the answer to.

"Who's the project for?"

"Doug Barrett, the CFO. I'll call you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"I love you, Emily."

"Me too. Kiss kiss."

I check back an hour later, and her screensaver has kicked in. She's gone.

So much for my plan.

While she's away, I set up an IM archive on her computer. Now, all I have to do is connect to her PC every night and download a file, and I can read every line of every IM conversation she's had that day.

Underhanded, you say? So is cheating.

* * *

I guess I know who the guy is now. And, contrary to what you might think, I don't want to run him over with a cement truck.

Though I've never met Doug, my imagination draws an exquisitely detailed picture of him. If I close my eyes I can see him, standing easily over six feet tall, with chestnut brown hair parted and combed perfectly, as if he had spent hours on it.

In my mind's eye, he wears an expensive olive green suit. With the way it is cut, and how it hangs on his lanky frame, it makes him look like an executive before he even says a word. Guys like me go to discount stores and congratulate ourselves for buying a perfectly good suit for $119.95, and we get by well enough with it until a guy like Doug comes along and exposes us for the wannabes that we are. We would look good in Doug's suit, too, but we either don't have the cojones to run up such a big credit card bill, or don't think we're important enough to need it.

I want to know everything about Doug. I want to know what kind of cologne he wears and where he takes his drycleaning. How does he answer his phone? Does he say, "This is Doug" with a helpful lilt, or does he spit out a harsh "Doug Barrett" which, just with its tone, tells the caller to get to the point, quickly?

I want to know how he caught Emily's attention. Was it just the suit and the cologne, or was it more? Was it the way that conversations fall silent as he walks by, the way that grown men smile fakely and make bad jokes to impress him? How did he make her overlook a serious relationship, a bond that we've built over three long years? How did he make her forget that trip to the water park last summer, when we rode the rides until dark, then giggled all the way home, exhausted, soaked and happy?

And dammit, how the hell did he make her lie to me?

I don't hate Doug. I want to learn from him. I want to know how he took Emily from me, and I want to do the same things he did, so I can win her back.

Next...Chapter 3: Stretch goals

Chapter 1: A Revelation

Bismarck, North Dakota

An online novel by Steve Caruso

Dedication

For my wife-to-be--thanks for letting me steal the covers.

Chapter 1: A Revelation

RedFoxx85: r u gonna see him again?

I stare unmovingly at the screen. If I sit here long enough, maybe I'll get an explanation.

I'm not stupid. If someone is asking my girlfriend if she's going to see some dude again, it probably means she is cheating. When's the last time you asked a girl that about her boyfriend? "Oh, you've been dating him for three years? Are you gonna see him again?" Duh.

I have no idea who the guy is. I'm not even sure who's asking, though it's probably her best friend, Renee. She's a redhead, which would explain the screenname.

I'm going to have to figure this out for myself, too, since Emily doesn't know I'm watching. I'm at home, connected remotely to her computer. She was having PC problems a few days ago, and I decided to make the repairs from home. I don't sleep at her place very often; she says we're not married yet, so we shouldn't act like it. "I want it to mean something if we commit to each other long-term," she tells me. Why does that line suddenly stink like a week-old pile of dirty laundry?

To answer your next question, yes, I did tell her that I was going to access her computer from my house. She was concerned that, if I could connect to her machine over the internet, then others could too, but I explained that it was safe. As soon as I mentioned the phrase "IP address", she tuned me out, though. Clearly, Emily does not understand that I can actually see what's on her monitor, just as if I am standing behind her. And I'm sure as hell not telling her now.

The IM window is framed in white and pastel pink, like a little girl's Easter dress. Somehow, it has the same delicate charm and childlike innocence that she does.

Emily loves me. She tells me that all the time. There must be some mistake.

There must be.

The screensaver kicks in. It's getting late. Emily must have gone to bed.

* * *

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" I ask the bathroom mirror, practicing mean looks. But I don't know why I'm bothering. I'll never actually confront her.

I've gotten angry with Emily a few times, and it always unfolds the same way. I yell at her, she yells back louder, and then I feel like an asshole. My mind has a funny way of twisting every disagreement around to make it my fault.

Fighting doesn't accomplish anything, anyway. Why do people scream at each other? Has anyone ever made a good point while shouting? No, the real progress comes when everyone takes a deep breath and talks rationally. Anger won't let that happen.

A guy named Todd Shepard occupied the locker next to mine in high school gym class. He had an almost intellectual curiosity about torturing me, watching my face like an inquisitive infant as he blew his nose on my t-shirt or dumped the contents of my bookbag out on the dirty floor.

At first, I didn't feel I was in physical danger. Sometimes, after sweating it up for 45 minutes on the basketball court, he'd shove my face under his flabby triceps and hold it there until I'd had a healthy whiff of his armpit. Or, I'd lift a leg to put my underwear on, and he'd kick me to the floor. Embarrassing? Yes. But I wasn't going to die from it.

But one day, Todd wrapped his pudgy fingers around my throat and squeezed until I felt my knees give out beneath me and the room went dark. "He's turning purple," he whispered to himself.

I almost told my dad about it a couple of times, but I was afraid he'd think I was a weakling. So I told the gym teacher instead, and he was no help. "You're not going anywhere in life if you need me to solve your problems for you," he said, barely looking up from his newspaper. "You better handle it yourself." So I did.

If I didn't want to get abused anymore, I would have to be dressed and out of the locker room before he got there. So I turned myself into a one-man Indy 500 pit crew.

I wore baggy sweats and t-shirts that I could slip into easily, and hung them in my locker on hangers, facing the right way, ready to be put on immediately. I neatly placed my shoes side by side on the floor of the locker, with the laces loosened, so I could step into them without using my hands. I was a dissheveled mess as I sprinted to my next class, but Todd never bothered me again.

My story will never be turned into an installment of the "Karate Kid" franchise, but I found a way to solve a problem without fighting. I've always been good at that.

Next...Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

Happy Sunday

Hello all,

I just read some of your comments about my lack of posting and I have to say... you are right. I miss blogging.

This site has helped me learn about myself and grow up. It's also helped develop my writing skills, and it's made me lots of friends. I was in a real groove for a while, writing 4,000 words a week.

But, the better the blog got, the more ambivalent I became. As far as I was concerned, my blog was better than a lot of the crap on the shelves at B & N, yet those writers were published, and getting paid for writing, and I was not. It was like John Mayer playing in his garage, alone, while Jesse McCartney signs million-dollar contracts.

I did have this one idea which would get me posting again, and would help my writing career.

I am hoping to start on my next book soon. It's a fictional story called "Bismarck, North Dakota". Don't worry, it's full of hot sex, voyeurism, and betrayal--all the shit you guys love. I was thinking about posting the story online a chapter at a time, for your reading enjoyment. Your feedback might help the story improve, and I would probably post very frequently as I got rolling.

Anyway, just an idea. Tell me what you think. And thanks for stopping by!

Stevo

Stevo, the anabolic blogger

I'd like to congratulate Hank Aaron, the Major League Baseball career recordholder for drug-free home runs.

**********

Tuesday, May 29, 2007 (cont'd)
St. Francis Hospital

Forget taking a walk; Tim and I decide to head home. We'll call Chris to check up on him later.

"I don't... we don't... want you guys around here for awhile," Janet says later, over the phone. "It just seems like there's, um, always a lot of drama when Tim is around."

We sit silently for a long time. I can't believe what she's asking, can't believe she's blaming this all on Tim, can't believe Chris is going along with it. If he is.

"Put Chris on the phone."

"Chris agrees with me," she snaps.

"Can I speak to him, please?"

No sense debating this now. "Chris, go cool her off for a while and call us tomorrow."

"I think she's right, Steve."

**********

Wednesday, May 30, 2007,1:23pm

Webb Group Graphics

"Chris is in a meeting now. Is he expecting you?" a woman behind a desk says.

"No, I'm his brother. I'll wait."

An eternity later, his door opens. "Hello, Steve," he says cheerfully, shaking my hand as if I were a client.

We sit. As he closes the door, his smile fades. "Give me a couple of weeks. She'll calm down."

"This isn't Tim's fault. Why are you letting her put it all on Tim?"

"Because it was easier," he smiles. "They're women. They fight, and then they make up!"

No way. If someone doesn't put Janet in her place, she'll live her whole life thinking my girlfriend (and future wife) is a slut. It's Chris's job to tell her differently, especially since this was his doing--

"You want me to fall on my sword. Don't you?" he says, reading my thoughts, looking holes through me. "Steve, she doesn't want to hear it!"

"So wait a week, and then explain to her what a fucking prick you are!"

He doesn't flinch. Suddenly, I notice his high back leather executive chair. It looks brand new; he seems comfortable with his arms perched on the cushioned armrests. Did he have that the last time I was here?

"You gonna hit me again, Steve?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Depends. You gonna beg me to stop like a little bitch again?"

"Give me a couple weeks, Steve. It will blow over. I promise."

Someone knocks.

"Come on in."

Carol swooshes by me in in a pink sundress, and my heart pounds instinctively at the first glance of her tight butt. She asks him a question, then gazes admiringly at him as he answers, her eyes never wavering.

"By the way, this is my brother, Steve."

"I've heard so much about you!" she says, extending a hand. "So you're getting married, huh?"

"That's the plan."

Oh, by the way, did Chris tell you about how he grabbed my fiancee's ass? I'm guessing it slipped his mind.

She pulls the door closed as she leaves. "She's feisty, that one," he smiles.

"Hard worker?"

"I don't mean work-wise," he says.

"Another one? Dude, you have Irene--"

"Irene is out of the picture."

I won't preach to Chris. He wouldn't listen anyway. But it's tricky having a steady girlfriend on the side, and I'm not sure he can pull it off.

"You're very... pensive lately," he says. "You worried about me now?"

"I just--"

"You never did anything like this, did you Steve?" he says, sarcastically, and I notice his eyebrow again, cocked lower than it was before, his right eye narrowed noticeably.

"She is hot, I'll give you that."

"She says you're cute."

My heart leaps. It's nice to know that a young girl like Carol finds me attractive, even if I'm not going to do something about it.

"Really?"

"No, not really," he laughs.

Ending the drought

June 27, 2003 (continued)
10:05pm

I have not had sex for a good two months, and the constant horniness is annoying.

Sure, I jerk off twice a day, and you might think one orgasm is just as good as another. But when a girl gets me off, it means she thought enough of me to strip naked in front of me, to kiss me deeply and hug me with her legs; it means she gave a shit about me, even if just for an hour, and it was important to her to satisfy me. No matter what anyone tells you, that is a powerful feeling--certainly more powerful than rubbing your cock until your hand blisters.

I laugh when guys talk about how they "can't go without it", as if they can get laid whenever they want to. Unless your name is George Clooney, you go through cycles where you can't miss, and others where you couldn't get laid in a whorehouse. No matter what some men say, all of us must endure our share of lonely nights with our dicks standing at attention. Luckily for me, my latest drought might just be over soon.

I knock on the glass door to the pool. Michelle stops and smiles up at me, two wet towels in her hand.

"You're late!" she smiles, opening the door for me.

"I got lost," I say, winking.

"You did? Ohhh, you're kidding me again! I never know when to believe you!"

She walks to the edge of the pool and peels off her Team USA shirt, revealing a tiny bikini top.

I didn't expect her to be so curvy. She struck me as the lean, athletic type when I saw her earlier, but now that she has stood up and turned around, I can see that I was deliciously wrong.

"You comin' in?" she says, and I barely hear her over the pulse pounding in my ears. I'm trying not to stare at her succulent ass, but doing a bad job.

"Yeah!" I reply, finally.

The pool area is completely dark --"So no one sees us," Michelle says--except for the underwater lights, which cast a warm glow around us as we swim.

"So how old are you? And where are you from?" she asks, and it dawns on me that I just met this girl today.

Her boyfriend graduated in May, and asked her to move back to Minnesota with him. She broke up with him instead.

"I'm only 19," she reasoned. "I mean, he was my college boyfriend. It wasn't like I was going to marry him or something." Her voice does not waver, but her eyes plead for me to agree.

If the guy was lame enough to ask some 19-year-old chick to move across the country with him, then I'm sure he cried like a bitch when she said no. He made her feel guilty, though they both knew it was the right choice. This is good news for me: It's a lot easier seducing a girl who is too young to be jaded.

"You did the right thing. You need to live your life. You both do! What was he, 22?"

She wants to know if I have a girlfriend, and if I've ever been engaged or married. I tell her about how Angie agreed to marry me, then unceremoniously ceased all communication, without so much as a "Fuck off and die". I love telling that story. It never hurts to look like an innocent victim.

It's 10:30. She's been working all night, and now she's swimming. Pretty soon, fatigue will set in and all she'll want to do is sleep. Time to make something happen.

You can't be too aggressive with a young girl. I swim to the steps and sit on the second one, looking over at her. "C'mere," I smile.

She sits next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. "I've never had a one-night stand before," she says, matter-of-factly.

My heart gallops. If there was any doubt that she wanted to fuck, it's gone now. And I haven't even kissed her yet.

Now that I'm taking a girl to my hotel room, the last thing I want is to run into my brother in the hallway. He and I would start talking, she'd suddenly feel dirty as hell, and next thing you know, she'd be high-tailing it down the stairs.

Chris's room is right next to mine. Luckily, I'm at the end of a hallway, so if we take the right stairway, we'll have no chance to run into Chris--unless something crazy happens, like him deciding to walk downstairs at the same time we're walking up.

We're halfway up the stairs when the door opens, and immediately I recognize the tattered shorts and huarache sandals.

Yep, Chris.

I open my mouth to say something, then realize that Michelle doesn't know Chris from Adam. If I keep silent, I might just get away with murder here! That is, if Chris knows enough to do the same...

He looks at Michelle, then back at me, then at her again. Our eyes meet briefly and then he is past us, covering his mouth with his hand.

We reach the room. "I want you to use a condom," she says, before the door is even closed all the way. Luckily, I have one in my laptop case, for just such emergencies.

You might think that not getting any for a long time would give me quick-squirt syndrome, but it's just the opposite. It takes me a while to get going, like a car that has not been driven all winter. A blowjob would be awesome, but I doubt this timid little college girl is going to go for that. I start to put on the condom.

"Don't you want me to suck your cock?" she says, with an innocent smile.

She wraps her lips around my stiff rod, and a shudder passes through me like electricity. She shields her teeth expertly, so that all I feel is the inside of her mouth as her head bobs up and down with agonizing slowness. Definitely not the first time she's had a dick in her mouth.

She reaches behind her back and her bikini top falls away, her naked tits tumbling out and rubbing against my grateful midsection. Her head sinks deeper, and deeper still, until I feel the back of her throat and she gags.

"You almost made me puke," she grins.

It's no problem. I've had all I can stand. If I'm not inside her pussy in the next 10 seconds, I'm going to explode.

"Do you want me to--"

"I want you to open your legs for me so I can fuck your tight little pussy."

She slips her bikini bottom down her tanned thighs and sits on the bed, gingerly spreading her knees apart. I watch myself enter her, listen to the wet sounds of our sex, smell our mingling sweat.

I bend over and lick her stiff nipple, and she grabs me behind the neck, mashing my face against her tit. I pull my head back and watch my hips rise and fall against hers, faster and faster, until I feel the wave rise within me. My cock is full, heavy, ready to burst with the full force of my lust. I ache to cum; I cannot possibly hold back any more.

I pull out of her and strip off the condom in one motion. Cum erupts out of me in spurts, onto her stomach, between her tits, into the hollow place at the base of her neck.

I linger over her for a long moment as we catch our breath. Yes, this entire episode was borne of pure lust, but unexpectedly, I enjoyed her company. Somehow I feel like... talking to her.

"That was nice," I say.

Head for in the mountains

Friday, June 27, 2003

I've come to hate long drives. These days, most everything on my to-do list involves typing on a computer or holding a meeting, and I can't do either of them effectively in a car. I'd like to say that a long stretch of highway is a perfect place to relax, but I can't calm down at all; I just sit idly, waiting impatiently for the miles to go by, and watching the guy in the Four Runner next to me pick his nose.

My father's aunt Carol dutifully calls us on the first Tuesday of every month--first my father, then my brothers and I, in descending order by our ages. It's good being in the middle; when I'm tired of hearing about what was on sale at the supermarket that day, I can remind her that she has another call to make.

Once or twice a year, when my father can no longer shoulder the guilt she's heaped on him for not visiting, he somehow browbeats my brothers and me into a trip to the mountains. Telling ourselves that it will be different this time, that it will actually be fun, we load our car and pound due north until our ears pop from the altitude, where civilization stops and the road cuts a clean path through an endless sea of trees.

This is a great place to be for a skier. And if it's winter. Unfortunately, I'm not, and it isn't. If this area was going to be developed into a thriving city, it already would have been. But it hasn't, so until the next ice age, the "center of town" will be nothing but moose-themed gift shops and rustic bed-and-breakfasts.

I insisted on taking my own car this time, and dad told me I was nuts. But work is going well for me, and I have a lot to do this weekend. I really can't spare the time, so, at the first sign of lameness, I am gone--and, lame or not, this is the last time I'm coming up here.

The Twin Mountain Lodge
Coos County, New Hampshire
7:30pm

Dad tried to convince us to stay in one room, but we didn't. What, are we twelve?

I cross the parking lot toward the health club, with a cool breeze in my face. The western sky glows pink and orange, and I can't help but stare at it. I stop where I am and breathe deeply. Maybe this trip will suck less than I anticipated.

I mumble a hello to the girl behind the counter as I sign in, then turn back to look at her again.

Clearly, she bought her "Team USA" t-shirt before she became a woman. Now, it's a prop from a sexy calendar shoot, faded and stretched tight across her ripening bustline.

Wow! You guys sure take this Twin Mountain theme seriously, don't you?

I turn away and stifle a chuckle. "What?" she says, sheepishly. "Did I... say... something dumb?"

Obviously, the common sense train left the station without her on board. The girl has not said one word to me, so how could she have said something dumb? Not that I'm complaining...

"No, of course not. I was just... thinking of a joke." That's usually enough to make it go away when someone sees me laughing.

"Oh, what was it!" she chirps, sitting up straighter in her chair.

For a moment I'm lost in her flawlessly white teeth and huge blue eyes. Damp brown hair hangs lazily, covering part of her face. She's relaxed and sexy, the way your girlfriend looks after coming out of the shower. I have a hotel room here; I wonder if I could convince her to-

"Did you forget it?"

"Huh? Oh, the joke? Well, it's just kinda dirty, that's all."

"Tell me!"

This is a good sign. She's either a complete slut or not offended easily. At the very least, she'll be fun to talk to.

I tell her a joke. She chuckles loudly as soon as I utter the word "dick", though I haven't even reached the punchline yet.

"My God," she says, rolling her eyes. "This one time, I was at a party at my girlfriend's house, and I passed out in her room. And when I woke up, she was giving some guy a blowjob three feet away from me."

Okay, that totally was not a joke. And you know what? I want to get you naked anyway!

"And they asked you to join them, right?" I ask, spitting out the first thing that comes to mind.

Her face goes blank. "Were you there?" she says, and she seems honestly confused.

"What? No, I was just... kidding..."

"Ohh," she says slowly, obviously still processing.

Michelle is on semester break from college, working at the health club for summer cash. A steady stream of swimmers walk past us as we talk, dotting our conversation with thank yous and have a good nights. One man asks what time the pool closes.

"9:45," she answers.

"You're gonna let me come by at 10 though, right?" I ask.

"Umm, yeah, that sounds cool."

...To be continued...

Bad for Baseball

I hope the stands are empty when Barry Bonds hits his 756th home run.

But if fans do show up, I hope that, when the ball lands among them in the bleachers, they avoid it like radioactive waste.

Of course, Barry's got his supporters, and they are more denial-ridden than a church basement full of alcoholics who can quit whenever they want. Their love of Bonds, or the team he plays for, blinds them to his desire to excel at any cost--to his health, to the kids who watch him, or to the game itself.

Bonds's defenders have heard the responses to the allegations, many from Bonds himself, and they repeat them dutifully. But they are either ignorant of the facts, or they hope that we are.

"Steroids don't improve hand-eye coordination," they tell us, "and steroids don't make you see the ball better or swing the bat faster." No, and robbing a bank doesn't improve your credit rating, either. But it does provide a pile of tax-free cash that any self-respecting criminal would drool over. Steroids provide major benefits for those stupid enough to use them; to pretend otherwise is disingenuous.

We can learn a lot from men like Lou Ferrigno and Lyle Alzado, who have spoken openly about their steroid use. Steroid users are so driven to win that they are willing to to break the law and the rules of their sport--and to pay with their long-term health--for an extra few pounds on a bench press, or 1/10th of a second in a footrace, or, yes, for another 30 feet on a fly ball.

They also speak of personality changes. Their confidence seems to grow along with their muscle mass, providing a mental edge to match the physical one. We've all seen that guy at the gym, the one whose biceps popped seemingly overnight, who suddenly had no problem hitting on the chick behind the counter, even though her six-foot-four, 265-pound husband owned the place.

Steroids aren't magic. They won't turn Peter Gammons into Pete Rose. What they will do is turn a long fly out into an easy home run. That little nudge was all it took: Suddenly, players who previously only had warning track power were approaching, or besting, the single-season home run totals of guys named Ruth and Maris.

Don't believe me? Think all these home run hitters were on the level? In that case, I guess it's just a coincidence that the Luis Gonzalezes and Sammy Sosas of the world were putting balls on the moon by the bucketload--until baseball outlawed steroids. Now, they're all mortal again, and they want me to believe that the spike in production was just random chance. I don't buy it.

Like any great outrage, there is more than one party at fault. The egotistical, hyper-competitive players could not have gotten away with this had it not been for teammates and managers who loved the stratospheric offense too much to object in any way.

The owners aren't blind either. They read the papers just like you do, they saw the bloated stats, and they drew the same conclusion that any half-witted twelve-year-old could have. And then they did nothing.

Voltaire said, "Every man is guilty of all the good he did not do." In the interest of fairness, and the health of its players, major league baseball leadership should have pushed hard for a comprehensive, all-encompassing steroid ban as soon as the problem became embarrassingly obvious. Sure, the MLB players' association, by many accounts the strongest union in American history, would have made that a difficult, if not impossible task. But the owners should have fought for it. They didn't.

I am asking for something unrealistic, you are saying. No sport would ever do such a thing. But you're wrong.

Funny, isn't it, how we never see NFL kickers booting 73-yard field goals or 90-yard punts. We don't see running backs vaulting into the end zone from the 7-yard line. We hardly ever hear NFL steroid allegations at all. That's because the game has cracked down on illegal drug use, and created a meaningful test program with harsh penalties. Todd Sauerbrun, a punter for the Denver Broncos, was suspended for four games - four - for taking a diet pill which was sold over-the-counter. We regularly hear of similar suspensions, for marijuana and other drugs, by the NFL, long suspensions which cut deeply into a player's paycheck. When's the last time a baseball player was suspended for a drug violation?

And the NFL is not alone. Immediately after competing, Olympic athletes are led to a room where an official watches them urinate into a cup, so they can be drug tested. Medals and world-records are routinely stripped from offenders. Think Bonds is in any similar danger?

I don't care that I am experiencing "baseball history". This is not a heartwarming story. This is the story of an already-great player, for whom mere greatness was no longer enough. I hate what Barry Bonds has done to baseball, and what baseball, in turn, has done to us.

Paying the Piper

Tuesday, May 29, 2007, 11:59am
St. Francis Hospital

So much for me going to work. I wouldn't have been able to concentrate, anyway.

"I'm just warning you. He doesn't look too good," Tim says as we round the last corner before Chris's room, our shoes squeaking rhythmically across the shiny floor.

I was there, I saw him right after it happened. While it was happening, actually. How bad could he really be?

I make a right turn at room 322 and freeze dead in my tracks, standing statue-still as I feel my skin turn instantly cold.

His face is so hideously bruised that I barely recognize him.

It's funny how the mind works. It will make up all sorts of crazy shit when it really doesn't want to believe something. Why is Chris wearing a mask?, I find myself thinking.

Dad and Janet stop talking and look up at me, their faces a mixture of "I hate you" and "How could you?"

"Hello, Steven," my father manages, finally. He and Janet walk past me and down the hall, with Tim close behind, leaving Chris and I alone.

"Hey, Twinkie," he says, in a scratchy voice.

"D-- did I do this?" I ask.

"It's from my nose. The bruising spread to my face. It happens sometimes. I have a subconjunctival hemorrhage too."

"Huh?"

"The whites of my eyes are all bloody. See?" He says, pointing to his face like a young boy showing off a scab.

"Chris, look, I--"

"Steve," he says, in his usual softspoken way, and I stop to listen. "I was miserable. And jealous of what you and Tim have. I was just trying to ruin it so you would be as pissed off as I was."

"When I heard what you did, I--kinda felt like you would have actually done it. That you would have had sex with Tim, if you could have."

"I don't know, man. I wasn't thinking that far ahead. It was very impulsive."

"Well, it hurt to think my brother could do that."

"I don't blame you. I don't blame you for any of this," he says, softly. "I probably deserved it."

He turns his swollen eyes to me, and between the dark purple bruises and his Bassett Hound-like expression, I have to look away.

"I want to make it up to you and Tim. I told her, too. I want to earn your respect back. I mean it."

"Just get better, man."

"I'm trying." He brings a plastic cup to his mouth and takes a shaky sip.

"I guess you told Janet about what you did. Right?"

He nods slowly. "She basically isn't speaking to me. She says if it wasn't for the baby she would have divorced me."

"Did you tell her about--"

"Irene? Do I look retarded to you?"

"No. Bruised, but not retarded."

"Fuck you," he laughs.

1:30pm

"I know everyone is still mad, but I want us to talk things over. If you have something you want to say, say it now," Dad says.

"I--" I begin.

"First of all," Dad says, "Chris, I don't know what the hell got into you, but Tim is just like a daughter to me, and you hurt me just as much as you hurt her and Steve. How could you do such a thing?"

"I'm sorry, Dad. And I already apologized to Tim. And Steve."

"And Steve, since when do you beat up your brother?!" Dad says.

"I was wrong for handling it that way, and I want to say I am sorry for letting the family down. I--"

Obviously he's heard enough from me, and he cuts me off. "Tim, do you have anything you want to say, since you were the victim here?"

"I spoke to Chris, and Steve, and I let them know my concerns."

"Do you forgive them?"

"I... of course I do. I just, Chris kind of surprised me, and Steve--"

"What do you mean, he surprised you?" Janet sneers, sweeping her chestnut hair from her eyes. She stares unflinchingly at Tim, and the rest of us follow suit. The question seems innocent enough, but her voice is pure anger.

"I-- he, just, didn't seem like the kind of person who would do that," Tim says, clearly choosing her words carefully.

"So what does that tell you?" Janet says, staring harder.

"You think this is my fault?" Tim says.

"I can't understand why he would do that!" Janet says, mockingly, batting her eyes at the ceiling. "Gee Tim, could it be the way you were dressed?"

Tim's eyes narrow. "What did you say?"

"You have a nice body! We get it! You don't have to rub our faces in it!"

"It was a pool party!" Tim shouts.

"That doesn't mean you have to walk around with your tits hanging out!" Janet shrieks.

I turn to Chris. He's already looking at me.

Somehow, though his eyes are bloody, I can see the same serene look I've seen five hundred times before, the look of a man who can handle any crisis easily. Without a word, I know it's time to get to work.

I stand up, and to my surprise, Chris does too, swinging his legs briskly over the side of the bed and hopping to his feet in one swift motion. He walks over to Janet, grabbing her raised forearms in his hands. The room falls silent as they hug.

"Let's go for a walk, Tim," I say, and we head for the hallway.

"How about a fruit basket instead?"

Monday, May 28, 2007, 5:44pm
Steve and Tim's house

I sit at the kitchen table, running my eyes over the newspaper in front of me, trying in vain to read it.

This was a mistake. Chris is my brother, as he pointed out while I was kicking his ass, and I will see him often as time passes. And since I am marrying Tim, she'll see him too, and there is no realistic way he can avoid her, as I demanded he do.

There is no excuse for what he did, but I handled it as badly as I possibly could have. There must have been a better way.

Tim is going to be angry, for one thing: She told me not to do anything stupid, and she was right. She didn't even want to tell me about this in the first place, but I badgered it out of her. I'm beginning to wish I had never known about it at all.

The door opens and slams shut. Tim stomps by me without a single word.

Damn, is she pissed off. Even when she's really mad, she'll sit down across from me with an arms-folded pout, but today I didn't even get that.

I wait a few minutes and walk slowly upstairs. This is not going to be fun.

She's in the bathroom washing up. I stand in the doorway and she looks straight ahead, her stormy eyes burning holes in the mirror. She dries her face, then digs globs of moisturizer from a small jar and rubs it into her skin so hard that it might as well be war paint.

"Are you gonna talk to me?" I say, finally.

"I don't even wanna look at you right now," she huffs, and brushes by me and into the bedroom.

I sit on the bed and watch her as she pulls her soiled chef clothes off, replacing them with jeans and a t-shirt. She walks past me and back downstairs, keys in hand.

"Where are you going?"

"To see your brother. In the hospital."

"Tim, I was angry. He hit on you!"

"I'm way too pissed off to talk to you now."

"Tim, don't leave."

Slam.

7:29pm, text message from Tim:

i am staying at my parents house 2nite just wanted u 2 know i was ok

Steve:

i am not ok with that we are going to be married and if there is a problem we should be able to talk about it

Tim:

we will talk but not til 2morrow im sorry but i need time to calm down

Steve:

please come home in the morning i will go in late so we can talk

I hate that Tim's mother is involved now. Though she puts up a good front, I know that to her, this is still a power struggle, and she is salivating at the opportunity to dig her hooks into Tim when she is vulnerable. I am sure Tim will come home tomorrow filled with Diana-isms about how horrible I am.

Tuesday, May 29, 7:45am

Steve and Tim's house

"Can I talk first?" Tim says.

I love the way she looks in the morning, with no makeup and a long ponytail. With her rosy skin and bright eyes, she might as well have been plucked from a midwestern farm.

"You really hurt me. You didn't trust me, for one, and you didn't respect my wishes when I asked you to let me handle it."

"Who says I didn't trust you?"

"You beat up your brother because you were afraid something would happen if you didn't."

"According to who, Tim?"

"Are you telling me you weren't worried? At all?"

I hesitate just a second too long before saying no, and that's all she needs.

"You see? You don't trust me! Do you?"

"This isn't Leave it to Beaver, Tim! I know how I used to be, and it's a little hard trusting other people."

"So I'm 'other people' now? I'm just some girl that you're sleeping with?"

"Don't be stupid, Tim!"

"So I'm stupid now?"

I hate arguing with girls. It's as if they have high-speed microprocessors in their heads, capable of breaking down everything I say, turning every word around and shooting it back in my eye like a spitball.

"Of course you're not just some girl! You're living in my--our house. Your name is on the deed. We're a family!"

"Your house?"

Shit. I knew that was coming.

"That's not fair, Tim--"

"Why are you marrying me if you don't trust me? If you're having all these... issues, then why did you say yes? Did you feel pressured into it? Do you need more time? Are we moving too fast?"

"No!" I shout. "I'm a big boy. If I wanted to say no, I would have."

"But you still don't trust me!"

"I've never really been in a healthy relationship. I've cheated and been cheated on. I get stupid sometimes, but that's my problem. I know you are trustworthy, and if I felt you weren't, then of course I would let you know."

"So you beat up your brother because you got stupid?" she sneers. "You drove a half hour to get down there. Were you stupid for a half hour?"

"The fight had nothing to do with you. Or it had less to do with you than with Chris and me."

"I don't understand."

Sunlight pours through the kitchen window at an unusual angle. I'm usually never home at this hour. A lot of time has passed, but I don't dare check my watch in front of Tim. The more I talk to her, the clearer I see the depth of her anger. She is disappointed and hurt, and it's going to take a long time for things to get back to normal.

"I knew you weren't going to hook up with Chris. I wasn't trying to prevent something. I'm not dumb; I know there's no way of preventing something like that, so I would never even try."

"Mm-hmm."

"Was I supposed to be happy that my brother tried to get your clothes off?"

"Like he really would have gone through with it, Steve."

"Why not? He did with Amanda. And Irene. And that chick Carol from his work."

She sits silently for a moment. She has clearly not seen things from a guy perspective.

"I don't... I'm not the same as them. I'm family! He couldn't do that."

"But he tried to."

"But it wasn't... I can't explain it. It wasn't sexual. He was acting out."

"And I suppose his acting out is okay and mine isn't."

"I didn't say it was okay!" she shouts.

"So why are you bitching at me? Why aren't you bitching at him?"

"Hello! Because he's in the hospital, Steve!" she says, her voice reverberating.

"Do you forgive him, Tim? Is everything all hunky dory with you two now?"

"He apologized."

"And that's it? Everything is perfect now, after his apology?" I say, sarcastically. "Would he have apologized if I didn't find out about it? Or is he just sorry he got caught?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't."

"And it's not perfect now," she says. "I told him that I was really disappointed in him for doing that, and that it was inappropriate, and that he caused a lot of friction between you and me."

"You did?"

"He wants to make it up to us. I told him to just focus on getting better."

"Tim, you have to know, this is about my brother betraying me. I know I act like I don't give a shit about stuff like that, but..."

"He hurt you, so you wanted to hurt him back."

"Yeah."

"He knows that, Steve. He would have talked to you about it. Why did you have to beat him up?"

"It's about male pride. You need a dick to understand."

"What does that mean?"

"Let's say I go talk to him, and he yesses me to death. What then? Do we go back to normal?" I ask. "Sounds like he's getting off light to me."

"Who says you had to go back to normal? It's your right to take some time apart from him, or to tell him that you need proof that he's learned his lesson."

"And if he never does?"

"Then you have to find a solution you can live with. And I could have helped you with all of this! I always ask you for help, why can't you ever ask me?"

Tim reminds me of a therapist sometimes. She's been through a lot of therapy herself, and has obviously learned from it. I think it has really helped her, and I am proud of how well-adjusted and sensible she is.

"I'm a man. Asking for directions is a big deal."

"Hm."

"So in your scenario I might never speak to him again."

"Of course you'll speak again. Your brother is very sorry, you know. Even though you acted like an asshole."

Normally I'd be pissed about that remark. But she's called me names before, just like I've done to her, and if that's all she's going to do, then I've dodged a bullet.

"I know."

"Is this how you're going to solve your problems now? What if we have a child and he disobeys you? Are you going to beat him up?"

"How can you say that, Tim!? How can you even ask that question?"

"You did it to Chris."

"Chris is my brother. We grew up together. You don't have a brother, so you don't understand. It's been years since I've hit anyone at all."

"Maybe it will happen again. If you did it once..."

I look her in the eye. This better be convincing. "Tim, on my life, I promise I will never hit you or our children, ever."

"Okay." She gets up from her chair and hugs me, and it's a rush of relief to smell her hair, to feel my hands on her muscled back. For the first time today I feel like we might actually get past this soon. "I'm still mad at you, but I'm glad we talked."

"Me too. How is he?"

"You broke his nose. And he has a problem with his stomach where you kicked him."

"But I didn't kick him in the stomach!"

"Must've been someone else then," she says, sarcastically. "He might need an operation."

"What?"

"Yep."

"Tim, I'm sorry about this."

"Don't tell me, tell him."

"Men get lost sometimes, as years unfurl"

Monday, May 28, 2007 (cont'd)

I remember very little of the drive down. I thought the ride would calm me, but as I turn the incident over in my mind, I only grow angrier.

I know what happened. He's on a hot streak; a couple of pretty young girls have gotten naked for him, and his wife hasn't found out. And now that he's bulletproof, he's going to hit on every hot chick he sees, and his hard cock won't care who she happens to be engaged to at the time. I know what it's like to feel that way, and I am sure he would have gone through with it.

He knows how huge this relationship has been in my life, how content I am to finally be settling down, and he would have destroyed that for his own selfish pleasure. He would have ripped my life apart, just to see her gorgeous naked tits, her shaved pussy, her curvy thighs.

Her nude body flashes in my mind's eye, and my cock stiffens despite the rage. My breathing quickens, and for a moment it's all I can do not to pull over and jerk off. I am like an animal, rabidly territorial, eager to rip my enemy's throat out before mounting my waiting female.

Chris's house
681 Circular Avenue

He's in the front yard, trimming the hedges. Birds sing; sunlight streams between the branches of an oak tree, making bright patterns on the grass.

I park and walk towards him. When I am ten feet away, he turns and looks casually at me. "Hey, Steve. Are these shrubs uneven?"

I punch him in the face.

I was aiming for his neck, actually. I've never tried to punch someone's face. Why would I, with all of those bones and teeth in the way? Back when I fought a lot, I always aimed for the neck; it hurts them like hell, and it's as soft as punching a beach ball. The fights usually ended quickly.

But Chris didn't cooperate. He saw the punch coming at the last moment and tried to get out of the way, but only ended up putting his nose right in front of my fist.

There's a subtle snap, no louder than a twig breaking, and right away I know it's broken. Blood gushes over his mouth and chin, and I recall the red beard Greg had after mom slapped him that day, all those years ago.

He touches his fingers to his nose and pulls them away slowly, staring at the bright red goo that drips from them.

The blood emboldens me. He is wounded, vulnerable, and now is my chance to make him remember this mistake permanently.

I hit him harder, in the neck this time, and he stumbles over his feet and collapses to the ground; I fling myself on him, rearing back and hurling my fists at him with every ounce of strength I have.

"Steve, stop! Please, stop!" he cries, crossing his forearms in front of his face, but my rage has taken over and I am outside my body, observing the action like a disinterested third party, noting the tiny smacks of fists against skin, and the red welts that have already started to form.

The screen door flies open. "Steve, what are you doing? Leave him alone! Leave my husband alone!" Janet says.

She grabs my right arm in her hands and pulls hard enough for her nails to draw blood. I barely feel it.

I stand up and fling her across the lawn like an empty pillowcase. She falls to the ground, then rushes back into the house, sobbing.

She'll be calling the police now, I think, and I don't care.

"Steve, I'm sorry," he pleads. He raises his head and lets out a weak, gurgly cough, the cough of an old man. "I'm sorry! Please don't hit me again."

Don't hit you? No problem, motherfucker.

I reach my leg back and kick him savagely to the midsection. He doubles over, the air escaping his body with a small "hup!". He curls into a ball and I rain kicks onto his exposed arms and legs, then finally stop to rest as he lay there trembling, struggling just to breathe.

"Steve, I- I'm your brother," he manages, so softly I can barely hear him. "Let's- we could've talked about it," he whimpers, his voice shaking. I step back and look at him, at his faded WPLR t-shirt with fresh mudstains where I kicked him. The shirt has ridden up a bit, exposing a small spare tire where his tight abs used to be. His hair has thinned noticeably at the top, too. Since when does he have a bald spot?

Suddenly the whole thing seems ridiculous. The facade is gone. He's no longer the aloof, womanizing player that he had become; now, he's just my brother again, the guy who quotes Monty Python with me and takes me to football games for my birthday. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

The screen door opens. "I called your father. He says you better stop fighting right now," Janet says. "He's on his way down here."

Oh, my dad says I better stop fighting? Well, I better stop then, otherwise he might take away my car keys. Or he won't let me go to prom.

I grab Chris's face in my hands and pull it to me, so our noses are an inch apart. "You come near her again," I say, through gritted teeth, "and I swear to fucking Christ I will kill you. Get it?"

He nods. "I'm sorry, Steve," he says, his teeth still coated in blood. "Please believe me, I am so sorry."

"Your father says not to leave," Janet calls after me, but I am already gone.

Chris crosses the line

Monday, May 28, 2007, 1:10pm
Steve and Tim's house

I'm not one of those guys who keeps a leash on his girl as if she were a pit bull.

I can spot jealous guys a mile away, the ones who pull their women close, leering suspiciously from side to side as if guarding Paris Hilton's jewelry collection. I find insecurity unattractive, so I consciously avoid it. No matter how much I'm burning on the inside, I pretend to be busy reading labels while some muscled Fabio wannabe strikes up a conversation with Tim as we wait in line at the drugstore. Then I'll make a joke, and the three of us will laugh, and he will realize he's getting nowhere and move on.

Five minutes after sitting down at a bar, she's got enough free alcohol in front of her to put Lindsay Lohan in a coma. She's the center of attention at every party we go to, and she's barraged with a steady stream of pickup lines as she works or does her errands.

I won't lie to you: Dating a beautiful woman is hard. I'm not the tallest, tannest, or sexiest man in the world. I don't have Donald Trump's money or Tommy Lee's dick. I do well professionally, and I'm happy and in decent shape, but Tim is an all-star. She can have any man she wants! I fear that, eventually, one of the guys who hits on her is going to be too good to pass up.

Tim says that she jumped from guy to guy for a long time and that she's tired of it. She says that she loves talking to me and learning from me, and that she can count on me when it's time to buckle down and solve a problem. She enjoys taking care of me, making sure that I eat like a restaurant critic every night, and that I blow more loads than a porn star.

She talks about our wedding and our future family all the time; when we go out, she stares at every passing baby the way I stare at the Victoria's Secret catalog.

I believe what Tim tells me. I trust her more than I have trusted anyone in my life. But that sliver of doubt never leaves, nagging me like a pebble in my shoe, and I've always wondered how I would react if some dude crossed the line.

"I hate to have to tell you this," Greg says on the phone, "but I heard something yesterday you're not gonna be happy about."

"What did you hear?"

"Tim was... she..."

My stomach drops. What is it? Did he catch her with another guy? But yesterday was a family picnic for Memorial Day. No available guys were even there, and no one who would have had the balls to hit on her, except...

Chris.

"Chris walked up to her in the kitchen, and he--"

"Greg, for Christ's sake, spit it out!"

"I was outside, changing the propane tank on the grill. The windows over the kitchen sink were open and I could hear them talking. He said, 'You look bored. Is my brother boring you?'"

"What did she say?"

"Steve, you have to promise me you're not gonna get pissed at Chris. He's just under a lot of stress--"

"Too fucking late. And unless you want me pissed at you, you'll finish telling me what happened."

"I heard her say, 'Stop!' Then he walked out."

"That bastard."

"I figured Tim might have told you herself, but I needed to let you know just in case--"

I hang up and dial Tim's work. Someone was having a party at the restaurant, and she got called in.

"She's really busy," a young man's voice says.

"It's an emergency."

"Honey? What's wrong?" Tim says.

"What happened with you and Chris yesterday?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about what?"

"Steve, he's obviously miserable, he was drinking all day, and he said something stupid."

"What did he say!?"

"I'm really busy here."

"Tell me what he said."

"No. You're gonna fly off the handle, and it's not necessary. Nothing happened!"

"Did he hit on you?"

"Steve, I think he was just kidding."

"What did he say!?" I shout, my heart thumping almost audibly.

"Baby, it's very hectic right now. My steaks are burning, I promise we'll discuss this for as long as you want when I get home," she says, sweetly, but I get the impression she's as close to snapping as I am.

"For Christ's sake, why can't you just tell me?"

"Fine," she huffs, her voice sharp and angry. "He asked me if I was bored with you. He put his hand on my ass and tried to kiss me. Are you happy now?"

I'm gonna fucking kill him.

"You're such an asshole sometimes. What, you think I'm too immature to handle being hit on? Or do you just not trust me?"

"I'll see you when you get home," I say, in a Hannibal Lechter monotone.

"Don't do anything stupid--"

Click.

"How about a moron instead?"

March 23, 2007 (continued)

Tim heard enough of the conversation to figure this out on her own; no sense lying on top of it. I fill her in on the whole sordid story.

She stares at me, her blue eyes big and unflickering, her long hair flipped over one shoulder. For a moment I forget about Chris, forget that it's the middle of the night, forget that--

"Your brother is cheating?"

"Yeah, Tim, that's so shocking, 'cause no man ever cheats on his wife."

"She just had a baby!"

"What are you telling me for?" I ask.

Yeah, I'm innocent! All I did was fuck the girl's sister!

"She needs his help! And he's out sleeping with some college girl?"

Actually, she's out of college. A total geezer!

"So you never slept with a married guy?"

"Well..."

"Uh-huh."

"That doesn't mean it was right to do it. Your brother knows better. What happened? I thought they were all lovey-dovey!"

"She got pregnant and turned into a bitch. Or should I say, more of a bitch than usual."

"If you ever do that to me, I swear--"

**********

Webb Group Graphics (Chris's office)
Monday, March 26, 2007

Your workspace says a lot about you. It shows your obsession with detail, or your habitual procrastination, or, in Chris's case, a thirst for power.

Neatly labeled black binders line a shelf across from his desk: Customer Retention (Nat'l), one of them says.

Chris is an accountant. He pursued that line of work because he loved the certainty of dollars and cents. The numbers didn't care if he forgot to brush his teeth or wore the same shoes as yesterday. Building working relationships was a waste of time for Chris; he felt that everyone should be like him, quiet and efficient, and that anyone who needed a coworker to reassure them was hopelessly immature. Maybe he still feels that way, but now he's playing the game.

Accountants don't care about customer retention. Accountants work from 8:30 to 12, take exactly 30 minutes for lunch, then work from 12:30 to 5, at which point they turn off their computers, slide their chairs under the desk, and go home. Clearly, Chris has changed.

Chris's boss sure as hell isn't holding him responsible for customer retention. If he's concerned about it, it's because he's gotten restless and started looking at the overall health of the company, and is eager to do something about it.

His phone beeps loudly. "You wanted me to remind you about the deposit," a female voice says.

"Thanks, Carol," he says, without looking up from his computer screen.

"Damn people forgot the deposit for the health insurance a couple months ago," he says, not looking at me. "You don't wanna screw around with people's benefits. You know?"

"Are you some kind of big shot around here?" I ask.

"You're not jealous, are you?" he asks without smiling, and then, finally, he looks at me.

A young brunette taps on his door frame. "Hi Carol," Chris says.

"I think this is right. Can you just have a quick look at it?"

"Seeing that it's you," he smiles.

My eyes open wider as she walks behind his chair and leans against him, firmly enough so that his shoulder is buried in her left tit. Neither of them flinches, and right away I know they are fucking. It's instinctive: When a tit touches you at work, you jump. Unless you are so used to touching said tit that you don't notice anymore.

"Come say bye before you go," she says as she leaves the room.

Yep, fucking.

Twin Pines Restaurant
1:25pm

"Irene wants me to get a divorce," Chris says.

"You going to?"

His eyes narrow, and suddenly I realize what's been bothering me all day about him: He looks different somehow. There's a subtle change in his face, so insignificant that it barely registered in my subconscious. It's been gnawing at me all day like a phone number that I couldn't quite recall, but I finally figured it out.

It's his right eyebrow.

Chris and I inherited dad's thick, dark hair, and while our eyebrows are not bushy, you can't miss them, either. And, as my obsessive-compulsive mind repeatedly notices, they are perfectly level with each other. Or at least they were.

His right brow is slightly lower than his left--just a millimeter or so--and the eye underneath squints almost imperceptibly, as if he's heard something he doesn't quite believe.

It's ridiculous. Chris is almost 40, and at that age, skin sags. It's nothing.

Right?

But maybe it's not nothing. Maybe the eyebrow is a sign that his personality has changed, a tiny nuance that will end with my brother becoming someone I don't know, and don't even care for very much.

"What are you looking at, Steve?"

"Are you divorcing Janet?"

"Don't be an idiot."

OMG, i totally just killed someone lol :-D

What the fuck is wrong with people? I mean, really now!

How sick does one have to be, to put a bullet in someone, watch them fall to the ground, bleeding, and then keep shooting?

What I really don't get is why this guy waited between attacks. He killed two people at 7:15, then 31 more a couple hundred yards away, two hours later.

What the hell was he doing in those two hours? Laundry? Checking email? Maybe a couple of quick IM's?

It seems as though most of the victims didn't even know this loser, and yet they lost their lives. Maybe there is a God up there, but if there is, I'm pretty sure he just created the Earth and turned his back. No way anyone looking out for us would permit this kind of nonsense.

**********

Friday, March 23, 2007 11:59pm
Steve and Tim's house

My blissful sleep is interrupted by the shrill bedside phone. Gotta turn that ringer down tomorrow.

"The baby won't sleep! She won't eat..." Janet shrieks, so loudly that I pull the phone away from my ear.

Chris annoys me more with each passing day. If he wants to fuck around on his wife, fine, but he's being careless about it. I don't care how leak-proof your alibis are; keep pushing it and you're going to get caught.

"I'm sorry about that. I really am. "

"Chris won't answer his phone!"

"Where is he?"

"He's out drinking with his work friends! He's with them all the damn time!"

Yeah, well, in fairness, his "drinking friends" have really nice blowjob lips...

"Steve, you have to help me! What bar is he at?"

Hmm. He's probably either at the Horizontal Haus, or the BJ Cafe.

"How should I know?" I exclaim, more awake now.

"You have to help me find him. What if he got into an accident?"

I sit up. This could actually be bad news. When he finally comes home, she's probably going to demand his friends' names and numbers. But that's his problem.

"Please help me, Steve."

Chris obviously has no intention of answering his phone, so I try Irene. I'm trying once and going back to bed. Enough is enough.

"Hi, Steve."

"Irene! What's going on?"

"Wellll..." she giggles.

On second thought, don't answer that.

"Janet is looking for Chris."

She covers the phone. "Your wife is looking for you," I hear, faintly.

"What the hell, Steve?"

"Your wife just woke me up because you won't answer your damn phone. Moron!"

"I'm kinda busy here!"

"So call her, and then get back to whatever it is you're doing. And stop involving me in this shit!"

"She called you, not me, you idiot." Irene giggles in the background.

Click.

It's a good thing Tim did not hear that, I think.

Oh shit! Tim!

I look down. She dozes silently, her right hand under the pillow, like always. In my drowsy stupor, I didn't think to leave the room. I hope she didn't hear anything.

I watch her for a moment. Nothing. Thank God. Now, to head back to sleep--

"Who the hell is Irene?" Tim says.

He says, she says - For whom the Belle tolls

For several years now, my good friend Ari has worked with me on the "He says, she says" project. But recently she let me know that, with everything else she has going on, she is unable to continue. Of course, she'll keep blogging for us, and as always, I'll be the first one in line to read.

Ari, thanks for being one of my first blogger friends, and keep in touch!

Of course, Ari's departure means that I need another "she" to help me out. Luckily, my new blogger chick friend, Belle, has come to the rescue! She is cool and funny... a total smartass, too. How is it that she has not been blogger chick of the month yet??

Anyway, here are your latest questions:

UPDATE: Thanks to a couple of your comments, I have done some research and it turns out that douching is no longer a completely advisable practice.

Belle actually speaks from a position of authority here and she has added some comments below.

As always, this Q&A is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for medical advice.

Hey steve and ari,i am a 25 year old african woman who hasn't had much
luck in relationships(if you can call them that!)i recently met a guy
and we hit it off pretty well,went out on a date and ended up at his
house allover each other,eventually getting naked.He had a little
trouble getting hard despite everything i tried to do to get him there.I
was just wondering if its normal for some men to experience performance
anxiety even if they're with someone who is pretty patient and
undemanding.I know it wasn't cuz he wasn't attracted to me,but this has
never happened to me before and i found it very wierd,i had a few
fleeting moments of insecurity thinking it might be my fault but i got
over that pretty quickly!i like him and want to see him again and maybe
try again..lol.I just wanted to know specifically from Ari,if this has
ever happened to her since i know Steve obviously doesn't have that
problem,and if you have any tips if it happens again.thanks alot.
curious

Steve says:

Sometimes guys get stage fright when with a girl for the first time, especially if you're hot-bodied and he usually strikes out with your caliber of woman. Also, there are a lot of "taken" men who play the field, and then get guilty-penis syndrome when it's time to seal the deal.

Do yourself a favor and double-check that this guy is not already hooked up with a girl (or a guy, for that matter). If you trust him, and like him, keep trying. It's good that you're not demanding; he needs your support if he's going to get through this. In a worst-case scenario, he's got some kind of erectile dysfunction, and there are plenty of treatments to help that.

Good luck!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Belle says:

Sweetheart, I'd like to say that if the guy has such performance anxiety that he can't even achieve, much less maintain, a decent erection when a woman is pawing all over him, he wouldn't be a very good lover. He'd be at the finish line faster than Jim from "American Pie". Not ideal.

If this man is middle-aged, my first question would be to confirm his true sexual orientation. Just because he plays like he is into you means nothing. There is still a strong homophobic climate present, even in a post "Will & Grace" society. Many men are still in the closet, still pretending to be straight. Secondly, there are serious medical conditions associated with Erectile Dysfunction including, but not limited to, cancer and an enlarged prostate. Not exactly pillow talk, but something that should be addressed.

Finally, hon, don't ever think it's you. Pretty much any man would have an instant hard-on with a woman sitting next to him, in house, touching, kissing and caressing all over him. It has nothing to do with her or her abilities to get him aroused, it will be an almost knee-jerk reaction. If you have any concerns over your performance, so to speak, in that situation, my best advice is work on your speech. From personal experience and the confirmations of numerous boyfriends and guy friends, nothing will turn a choir boy into a loverboy faster than some serious dirty talk. Tell him what you want to do to him, what you want him to do to you, hell, tell him about the dream you had last night, replacing Johnny Depp with him.

And don't forget to have fun! When you stress about this stuff, the mood will die faster than someone involved with Howard K. Stern.

Good Luck!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So, noticing that nobody asked questions for a while, I'm gonna gather my courage and ask a few, just to test you both and see what I can get out of it!

1- I can't come! (Kinda clear eh?) Been able to, ONCE, and it was in plain missionary position and it took about 45 minutes non-stop in the same position. (Talk about borring!) Otherwise, I need some intense clitoris stimulation. I work on my vagina muscles but... Nothing! This is frustrating!

2- All my boy-friends (except 1) were quickies. I mean, who can get pleasure out of a 5 minute sex relation? Is there anything I / he can do about it?

3- I wear a coil (think the translation is ok) since nearly 2 years now and I've been in a serious relationship with my boy-friend for over 3 years now. I allow him to come inside me (condoms are a real turn off for both of us). The thing is, I have some "losses" (?), as if there was some cum left inside or something and it's stinky... I clean up very carefully but still... Wondering if it may be my soap or something or if it have anything to do with the fact that he's not coming out of me... I have those "losses" almost every day of the year... Any hint? I'd really love to get rid of that.

4- My ex boyfriend was well equiped (8 inches...) and we've been together for nearly 7 years. Now that I'm with my new boyfriend (5 1/2 inches and about half as big), I sometimes get the feeling that my vagina is too big for him... Is that possible and is there anything I can do to make it get more firm?

Thanks a lot for your time...

WonderinGirl

Belle says:
WonderinGirl, Oh you're making me think deep, intellectual thoughts after a long day at work! Naughty! When I read your very first question, I went into professional mode. Just as with men, some medical conditions can affect a woman's sex drive and ability to achieve climax. Your very first course of action is to get a complete physical and, yes, be honest. Doctors hear a lot, trust me, you won't faze him/her by disclosing that you're having some sexual dysfunction. I know it isn't very sexy of me to harp on the medical aspect of people's problems, but it's something to be aware of and handle as the warning sign it may be.

Along the same line, make sure you are well lubricated. If you're dry, sex will not be nearly as pleasurable. Even if you think you're okay in that department, play around! Try out products such as KY Warming Liquid or Pure Romance Sensations. There are a wide variety of heighteners out there as well, like Pure Romance X-Scream (no, I don't sell Pure Romance, but, damn, I love their products) which increase your sensitivity and heighten (hence the name) your pleasure. Speaking in more practical tones, work on positioning. Most women I know climax easier in the Cowgirl position, but you need to work a bit to find your perfect fit. If Missionary worked for you before, attempt it again, but while he's pumping away, scoot your butt down a little, this will allow his penis to rub against your clitoris and give you the stimulation you want. Also, flex your vaginal muscles around his penis, this will greatly increase pleasure on both sides.

As for your second question, my gut reaction is to get better lovers! Otherwise, read your mate. Even if you haven't been with someone dozens of times, you can tell when they are close to reaching their intended goal. When their muscles tighten, the breathing gets heavier or whatever their telltale quirk is, SLOW DOWN! If you are on top, this is easy. If he is, wrap your legs around him tightly, signaling a silent plea for a slower pace. Some men are a little dense, so if he continues humping like there's no tomorrow, kiss him deeply, passionately and say, "Baby, no rush. We've got alllll night." Give him a sly, seductive smile. He'll get the hint.

I'm not too clear as to what country you're from, but I'm assuming you're referring to an IUD when you say "coil". In response: douche. It's an important part of being a sexually active, conscious, responsible woman. It's healthy for you and courteous for your partner.

UPDATE FROM BELLE:

My, my the hackles have been raised!

During my GYN rotation in nursing school, I met a lot of stupid women. Trust me, I've got some great stories thanks to the wonderful patients at Family Planning. So let me give a brief insight into the world of douching: Young girls should not douche. By young I mean if she's under the age of consent, no Summer's Eve. Any STDs, yeast infection included, no douching. Make sure to be responsible, use clean equipment and don't douche on a daily basis, it's not meant to replace the good ole soap and water of a shower. For the record, baths? Breeding ground for infections.

Yes, douching can make an infection worse and, if done improperly, can cause infection. To summarize: Use common sense, ladies.

Finally, contrary to popular belief, size does matter... to an extent. To wander into the medical realm again, yes, the elasticity of the vagina is damn impressive, but it is far from a perpetual rubber band. Childbirth is a common culprit of this and, I am pleased to say, has a super easy remedy: Kegel exercises. You mentioned "working on vaginal muscles", but I'd encourage you to be diligent in doing so. Uterine and vaginal prolapse are problems which require serious consideration. Also, try Ben-Wa balls, they are not just practical, but a fun addition. And your partner knowing that you are using Ben-Wa balls will add a suspenseful dimension to your relationship. He'll be thinking about it, knowing you're doing this for him (because he doesn't need to know it's more for you!) all day long and be ready to rip your clothes off at the first sight of you.

Good Luck!
Belle

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Steve says:

1. You should experiment with different masturbation techniques when you are alone. This can include watching porn, playing with dildos / vibrators, or reading my blog. Sounds like you have that last one covered already though...

The point is, you may need a lot of stimulation to get off, maybe more than your guy can dish out in one session. So, once you've found what works for you, have him help you out with it. Maybe he can't pound away at you for 45 minutes, but he might be able to use Mr. Tonka Toy for 43, and then mount you as you're heading down the home stretch.

2. Not all guys can fuck for long periods of time. Sometimes, especially if they are younger, they can have more than one orgasm per session, and if that is the case, him getting off too quickly might not be such a big deal: Just do it again!

If a second helping is not an option, refer to my previous answer. There are other ways for guys to get you off besides intercourse. He's got a mouth and two hands, and you have a drawer full of toys (don't you?)

Another trick I used when I was younger: If you're planning on hooking up on a Saturday night, let's say, he knocks out a good one in the morning; this way, he'll be less, um, explosive that evening. If that doesn't work, he might have to pound out around lunchtime.

One exercise I always use is to try to cut off the flow of urine in mid-piss. It's hard as hell at first, but learning this trick gives a guy control of the muscles down there, and makes it easier to hold back the tidal wave of jizzum trying to get out.

3. Are you dribbling down there on days when you did not have sex?

A little leakage is normal, especially after the guy uncorks a champagne-like blast inside you, but it sounds like it's a bit excessive, and I wonder if it might have to do with your IUD (coil). This is one issue you should speak to your doctor about, to rule out a medical problem.

4. The way I understand it, there are medical procedures to correct this type of thing, but I doubt that you need any. What makes you think you're too big for him? Does he slip out easily, does it not feel as good, etc.? Because all of those problems can be solved by changing positions (doggie works especially well), and experimenting with different angles. Even if you are just doing it missionary, sliding up or down slightly makes a difference!

Our new friends

Friday, February 16, 2007, 12:30pm
Steve's office

"I heard you dumped Krista," Chris says on the phone.

"Don't you have to be dating someone to dump them?"

"Whatever. She won't shut up about it. She's pissed at you."

I hate when people say they are angry at me. If it's a customer, that's one thing; otherwise, I'll answer with a yawn. Be pissed at me all you want; ignore me all you want. It's arrogant of you to think I care.

"That's nice, man."

"She says you're pussy whipped."

"And I say she's a cum-guzzling gutterslut."

"I'm starting to think she's right."

Chris doesn't want to go down this road with me. He is the one who, after he cheated the first time, begged his wife's forgiveness like a little boy who broke his mother's candy dish.

"Is there a point to this conversation? I need to get back to work."

"What was the big deal? Krista was having fun with you. She didn't want to marry you, Steve."

"Chris. You're about five seconds away from getting an earful."

"Alright, alright! They want to hang out tonight. You coming?"

"Goodbye, asshole."

**********

Outback Steakhouse
7:05pm

The waiting area crowd has spilled into the bar, and the door swings open every few seconds to add more. The benches are full, so Tim and I stand patiently, studying the pictures on the wall. She hates heavy jackets, and her windbreaker is far too thin for the cold, so she presses against me tighter each time the door opens; eventually, food is the farthest thing from my mind.

"That's a Timber Wolf," a bearded man says to me, pointing to a picture on the wall. "I noticed your eyes keep going back to it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The wolf in the picture. It's a Timber Wolf. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"You were watching my eyes?" I say, but it doesn't sound as mean as I want it to.

He's wearing a vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt and rumpled cargo pants, and a long-haired brunette with a pierced lower lip gazes admiringly at him as he speaks. Obviously, he's one of these life-is-too-short, earthy-crunchy types who would talk to Joseph Goebbels if he walked in.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Sorry, friend," he smiles, and he turns away.

He doesn't strike me as weird, just extremely laid-back. Maybe I'm nuts, but I believe him.

"What's the difference between a Timber Wolf and a regular wolf?" I ask.

We chat until we're interrupted by a voice over the intercom: "Bruce, party of two."

"Can you make it four?" he asks the hostess. She nods.

"Join us!" he says, smiling like a child.

"I don't use Microsoft products," he says from across the table. "It's been almost impossible finding IT jobs."

"The interview is usually pretty short," Patty interjects. "He sits down, says, 'I won't use anything made by Microsoft', and they say, 'Thanks for coming in.'"

We laugh.

"But why don't you use Microsoft?" I ask.

"Microsoft products are horrible. The worst-designed products in the industry. Most people don't know that because they don't see anything else. And they don't see anything else because Microsoft is a monopoly."

Patty nods enthusiastically.

"Microsoft is not a research and development company; they are an acquisition company. They wait for small, ingenious companies to make the breakthroughs, and then they either buy them or bully them out of business, and sell the technology as their own."

"So you oppose them on principle?"

"Of course!" he says.

"So why are you in IT? Why not another industry?"

"Oh, I do work in other industries at times. I've got a CDL now, so I can drive trucks! I also managed to find an IT job in a Linux shop, but it doesn't pay much."

"Linux? The non-Windows operating system?"

"Right."

"How about you, Patty? What do you do?"

"I walk dogs sometimes."

I only agreed to sit with them so we wouldn't have to wait as long. But the conversation was interesting, and Tim and I actually had a great time with them. Before we left, we made plans to see them again the next weekend.

The marrying man

The last time I asked someone to marry me, I was 23 years old. Actually, that was the only time, since Tim is the one who proposed to me.

The first time, I was too allergic to the future to think about what I was doing; after considering it for about 15 seconds, I walked into a jewelry store at 1:00pm and walked out 45 minutes later, a small box in one hand and a $2500 invoice in the other.

I was scared, actually frightened, by the debt. When she unceremoniously dumped me and kept the ring, fear turned to anger--but it amazes me how much drama such a small amount of money created. It burned at me for years, as if I had bankrupted my retirement account.

But that was several jobs and promotions ago. Now, $2500 means nothing. Tim and I refurnished our family room recently, and after dropping $2000 on furniture, and $1500 on an LCD HDTV (which rocks the house by the way, more on this later), we splurged on a fancy dinner ($97, inlcuding tip). That night, I slept like a baby. In fact, I slept better than usual, knowing that we had taken steps toward improving our home.

After proposing, Tim did not ask me for a ring. It was almost like she did not care, or that she wanted it to be strictly my idea.

When you are in love and planning to get married, you want everyone to know it. You want to talk about it, turn it over in your mind all day long. Having said that, it's easy to get out of hand. Some guys think this is a contest. "Bob got his girlfriend two carats, so I'm buying three for mine!" I want to buy her something extravagant, because I love her and want her to have the best. She doesn't deserve to be cheaped out on. However, I think anything over $10,000 is ridiculous to spend on a ring. I'm going to keep the price below that level if I can.

Tuesday, 11:30am
New England Diamond Exchange

"This is a gorgeous one," Ira says, pulling a ring from it's black felt bed. "See? It talks to you!" he purrs, turning it this way and that under the sharp fluorescent light.

Tim slides it over her pinky. "Hmm," she says.

It's far too small. Her hands are dainty, almost little-girl like, but the band is narrow and the stone unsubstantial.

"I think we need a bigger one," I say. Ira and Tim look at me. "Are you sure?" Tim says, reaching for the tiny price tag.

I pull the ring away. "She's not allowed to look at price tags. Okay?" I say to Ira. He smiles and nods.

He takes a step to his left and pulls another ring from the display case. She slides it over her finger and we all fall silent.

The band is platinum, and thicker than the others we've seen; the stone looks big and heavy, and its shine is clean and flawless. It doesn't matter how beautiful Tim is; the ring demands your attention, insists that you stare at its perfection.

I watch her as she studies the ring, as if she were a jeweler herself. "Can I see that... magnifying thing you put in your eye?" she asks.

"Sure," Ira says, handing her an eye loupe. He and I smile at each other; she is hooked and we both know it.

"What do you think?" I ask, finally.

She leans to the side, trying to read the price tag. I snatch it in my right hand. "Nice try."

"Steve!"

"Do you like it?"

"Oh my God," she breathes, just like she does during intense sex.

"How many carats is this, Ira?"

"Two and a half."

I need to know how much it costs, but it's important that I not look shocked, no matter how high the number. I glance at the price tag with a nonchalant smile.

So much for my $10,000 limit. But the ring is perfect.

"We'll take it."

Taking the "adult" out of adultery

"Why are you calling me?"

"Merry Christmas to you too. Butthead!"

Krista is just like a rebellious teen who gets scolded and laughs it off. Did she not hear the anger in my voice? Did she forget that she agreed not to call me, except in an emergency?

"I'm serious, Krista. Don't call me."

"Issh," she sighs. "Pretty obvious what you're after."

"Don't even. Don't even. I was totally honest with you from the beginning."

"What about Tim? Were you honest with her?"

Bitch.

"I need to talk to you tomorrow, Krista."

"Whatever. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Sorry you're being such a loser about it."

Tuesday, December 26, 10:14am
Steve's office

It might feel good to scream at Krista, but I know better. She knows enough to cause me major problems.

This is the nerve-wracking part, the part that comes long after the fun is over. Where the Kristas of the world are involved, I'll tell myself anything: That I'm perfectly safe, that she won't ever turn psycho, that I can disembark from this booty train whenever I want. Sometimes I'm wrong.

It's only now, weeks after we've awkwardly put our clothes back on, that restraint seems like a good idea. I can't believe I let myself associate with someone as immature as Krista. I even go so far as to read my old posts, looking for a line about a ridiculously hot body, or a perfectly sculpted set of boobs. I find nothing.

Krista was fuckable. She was there, and she was easy. Yeah, she's cute, and has a nice body, just like a million others. Unless this is the easiest rejection in the history of human interpersonal relationships, she wasn't worth it.

"Krista, Tim and I got engaged yesterday."

"Oh, cool! Great! Congratulations, Steve." Her voice sinks before the sentence is done, making the whole thing seem like a bad acting job.

"We have to stop seeing each other." Saying it out loud hurts; it makes me realize exactly how much of an asshole I was being.

"Seeing each other naked, you mean."

There's that teenager again.

"Uh, yeah. I guess so."

Silence.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Steve."

"You don't have to say anything. Look, I like you, Krista. It's just, I really can't do this anymore. I shouldn't have done it in the first place."

"So it's all my fault then?"

"What? No! Neither one of us is without blame, Krista. And I'm actually starting to feel some remorse, believe it or not."

"Well, congratulations on your remorse."

"I... I, okay, thanks."

"Bye."

That was almost too easy. I wonder if Krista really is as aloof as she appears, or if the fun is just beginning.