Chapter 8: A Double Decaf and a Skin Graft

RedFoxx85: is he back from vacation yet

SugarKookie: no monday hes been gone 2 wks :(

RedFoxx85: is he takin you out when he gets back

SugarKookie: o yeah he and i have unfinished bizness ;-)

RedFoxx85: ??

SugarKookie: told him he had to wait until he got back

RedFoxx85: wait for what??

SugarKookie: O:-)

RedFoxx85: ooo, gonna give him a coming home present eh?

RedFoxx85: ur holding out a long time arent you

SugarKookie: he wanted to do it b4 he left

SugarKookie: says i am driving him crazy ;-)

RedFoxx85: isnt that the point

SugarKookie: exactly :-)



I have been sitting at my desk for two hours, watching the time change in the corner of my computer screen. I can't think about anything else besides Emily, but I'm not going to let myself cry.

Apparently, no amount of optimism, love, or dedication will stop Emily from doing what she wants to do. She is hellbent on destroying our love, on humiliating me in the worst way possible. When she finally goes through with it, it will be an agony that haunts me for the rest of my life, and she laughs with her girlfriend about it like a giddy teenager, complete with emoticons.

It's almost like there are two Emilys: The one who spent a romantic night with me two days ago, and the cock-hungry monster who hedonistically seduces men, treating her long-term boyfriend as a punchline. Sometimes I think about dumping her, but breaking up with the evil Emily would also mean losing the good one, and I can't bear the thought of that.

I wasn't a punchline the other night, when I choked her, was I? It strikes me how nonchalant she was about it afterwards; I kept apologizing, and she kept telling me not to worry about it.

It's strange. Sometimes, when walking behind her, I'll accidentally step on her shoe, and she'll scream at me. This was a hell of a lot worse, and... nothing. Makes you think, doesn't it?

My friend Stainer used to tell me that girls loved being treated like shit. I secretly laughed at him, because he didn't get it. No one liked being treated badly! Holding a door for a lady, saying "please" and "thank you"--these were things that made people feel good. Where could he have gotten such an idea?

But Stainer was with a different girl every time I saw him. A different hot girl. He'd get laid, and the next morning I'd see him on his way to the laundry room, his cum-stained bedsheets wadded into a giant ball. Hence his nickname.

On the one hand, his strategy should have failed miserably. But on the other, women were drawn to him. I never could reconcile the two. I wish I could ask him about it now--

Wait.

Stainer graduated two years ago and took a job as an EMT in Norwood, a sleepy, cul-de-sac filled town about five miles from here. I'll look him up!

* * *

"Your girlfriend is doing what?" Stainer asks, his face twisted as if smelling a dirty diaper.

I watch as he stirs three sugars into his coffee, then let my eyes wander to the long line of patrons waiting for lattes. I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story. I know he's going to rip into me for being such a loser, but it was a relief to tell someone how I was feeling.

He runs a finger across the rim of his cup as I talk. "You're spying on her with your computer?" he asks, finally.

"She's cheating, bro. Which one's worse?"

"If the bitch is cheating, dump her."

"She's not a bitch, Stainer!" I shout, and the elderly couple at the next table turns to look at me.

"Yeah, she is," he smiles, showing off his angular jaw and sparkling teeth. The girls at school always used to swoon over him.

"I'm not dumping her, dude," I say.

"Why'd you call me, then?" he asks, then searches my face for an answer.

He looks older than I remember him. The waistline of his blue Chinos has creased beneath his sagging belly, and I don't recall quite so many wrinkles across his forehead. But as he fixes his brown Latino eyes on me, his face commands attention and respect. I wonder what it's like to have that kind of control over people.

"I want to... make her sweat me. Isn't that what you do? Treat 'em like crap and make them chase after you?"

"Yeah, but..."

I look at him.

"I don't really do that anymore, Eric," he laughs. "I have a girlfriend now, and--"

"I'm not asking you to do it. I'm asking you to teach me."

"It's not like a home improvement project, Eric. I can't just teach you."

"Try. Please?"

He watches the steam rise off his coffee, then takes a noisy sip. "If you love her so much, then why do you want to treat her like shit?"

I knew this was coming, and I have an answer ready. "If it's between losing her and this, then I'll--"

"You don't want to be alone," he interrupts, smiling and nodding.

Maybe I don't. But what's so bad about wanting to be in a relationship with someone special? Who doesn't want that? Go to any bookstore, and the shelves will be lined with books about romance. How to find a relationship. How to improve a relationship. How to get more sex. How to get better sex. But how many books are there about friendship, or about being alone? Almost none, because those subjects are far less important to people. And what's so horrible about wanting to fix my relationship, about standing by the one I love?

"Do you like being alone?" I ask, careful to maintain eye contact.

"No, I don't. But you'd rather be miserable than alone."

I dislike Stainer's arrogance. He thinks he can figure me out over a cup of coffee, solve me as if I were a grade school crossword puzzle. He isn't even listening to me; he's just spitting out opinions, not considering for a single second that he might be wrong.

He annoyed me when we were in school. I remember now. I am a year older than him, and yet he talked down to me, the way you would to a nephew or grandson. Come to think of it, a lot of people speak to me that way. I'm tired of it.

The anger comes back. I can feel it as it descends on me, filling my body like an evil spirit.

I wonder what would happen if I snatched that bucket-sized cup out of his hand and tossed scalding coffee into his face. Would his skin blister and melt, like cheese on a grilled burger?

Unlike Doug, Stainer is here, right in front of me. I could actually do it this time. He probably doesn't think I'm capable. He isn't afraid of me. Well, maybe it's time for him to be.

Why couldn't I do it? Why couldn't I throw that coffee in his face, right this second? Yes, there would be consequences. But I guarantee you he'd respect me from now on.

"Eric? Eric!"

"Hm?"

"You're not pissed at me, are you? You look pretty mad."

Then it hits me. Yes, Stainer is an arrogant son of a bitch. Yes, he annoys me. But evidently, he has something I lack. So does Doug.

I said before that I wanted to learn from Doug, to capture whatever it is that he's using to lure Emily away from me. But I've never met Doug, and probably never will, so Stainer is the next best thing. He's got something I need, so I will try to tolerate him.

I wonder how long I'll be able to.

Next... Chapter 9: Neither Hair nor There

Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

Chapter 1 begins here

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"Happy anniversary, sweetie!" Emily says, bursting through my front door with a heavy-duty paper bag in hand.

Emily and I don't mark anniversaries like most couples do. We celebrate ours on October 12, the first day I helped her study. Every year on that date, we order Chinese food, just like we did that night. Of course, we didn't start dating until long after our study session, but we agree that our relationship never would have happened without it.

I love when Emily visits me. Lately, it's the only time I can relax. I don't have to worry about where she's going, or what she's talking to Renee about, because she's right here with me. And, best of all, it's a chance to show her a good time, to prove that she doesn't need anyone but me.

I'm horrible with chopsticks. I drop the same piece of General Gao's chicken three times, then look up to see her standing over me. "You just want me to feed you, don't you?" she smiles.

"You're on to me," I flirt back.

"Can we watch this?" she asks, pulling a video from my shelf, and I agree before I even see what she's picked. I don't care if it's the most boring piece of Hollywood crap ever committed to film; as long as Emily curls up underneath my arm to watch it, I don't care. And sure enough, as soon as I hit "Play", that's exactly what she does.

The plot slowly unfurls. A 1950s detective is hired by a shady character to find a missing man. He questions a series of people, most of whom wind up laying lifeless in a puddle of their own blood soon after meeting him.

According to the digital readout, 63:42 has elapsed. I am interested in the movie, but far more concerned with the suddenly very clingy woman attached to my side.

86:27. The detective and a young woman dance, then kiss, then fall into bed, naked--and something goes horribly wrong. Their sex turns from passionate to intense to violent. She screams. There is blood--

Emily gets up to use the bathroom. When she comes back, she remains standing.

She's going to leave for home. Why else wouldn't she be sitting down?

It's after 11, and far too late to go see him. But then again, Doug and Emily don't exactly have a romance for the ages. It's pure lust, as far as I can tell, and I guess late at night is as good a time as any to have sex. Maybe she texted him from the bathroom to tell him she's on her way. Maybe he's growing harder by the second as he waits in horny anticipation for her.

She'll probably tell me she's tired, that she's got a lot to do tomorrow, that she can barely keep her eyes open. I'll offer to let her sleep here, and she'll refuse. "I'm okay," she'll say, and I'll watch from the front window as her taillights fade out of sight.

This is our anniversary. She's supposed to be thinking about me, me and only me! It's unfair! How could she bring herself to share a romantic dinner with her boyfriend, on our most special of days together, only to go to her boss's house for cheap sex afterwards?

I look down. Her cellphone is on the floor. She couldn't have texted Doug from the bathroom.

"Do you wanna come lay down with me?" she asks, sweetly, and I go stiff under my boxers. "Come lay down with me" has always meant the same thing.

This will be the first time we have made love since I found out. I'd like to say that it will be a relaxed, sexy romp between two long-time lovers, but it won't. This is the Super Bowl of sex, a pressure-packed test of my ability to please her. Whether I like it or not, I am competing against someone else now, someone who is almost definitely more experienced than me.

I stare at her face in the half light of my bedroom, watching her white teeth as she whispers to me, smiling like a little girl.

"Why have you been so sad lately?" she asks softly, tracing swirls on my bare chest with her finger.

"I miss you. I'm miserable when you're not with me."

"Yeah right, you probably have another girlfriend," she giggles.

"How could you say that, Emily? How could you say that to me?" I ask, sharply. We have been whispering up to this point; it seems like I was shouting, though I wasn't.

"I was just kidding!"

"I don't like the way you kid!

"Then I won't kid with you anymore! I'm sorry you can't take a joke!"

"Are you cheating, Emily? Do you have another boyfriend?"

Shock flashes across her face, then disappears so quickly that I might have been imagining it. "No!" she shrieks. "Should I be mad at you for asking?"

I shake my head no, and let silence fill the room.

She takes a deep breath. "I don't want to fight with you. It's our anniversary!"

"I don't want to fight either."

"You're so good to me. You make me feel special. You're the only one who's ever made me feel that way."

"Then why--"

"Why what?"

I have to ask her. Now seems like the wrong time, but there is really no right time for something like this. She's opened up to me now, maybe enough to be totally honest about everything.

"Then why don't I see you more often?"

I couldn't bring myself to say it. If I did, she'd come up with an excuse that somehow explained everything, then she'd rip into me for spying, and I'd have to suck up to her for months to make up for it.

"It's our busy time of year at work. It'll be over soon."

"Do you promise it'll be over soon?"

"Yes."

We kiss. All at once, I am on top of her, and our eyes close as I feel her tongue slip slowly into my mouth.

I pull away and watch in slow motion as I slide down her lacy pink panties. My eyes scan upward and stop between her legs, where I see...

...hair.

She definitely has not shaved recently. Emily has a thick bush, straight out of a 70's porn film, and it's just as full as ever.

"Haven't you ever seen a naked girl before?" she chuckles, as I stare at her.

Doug will not go near her unless she shaves, and she hasn't shaved, which means she has not cheated on me. This is ironclad proof. I wish I could shove those black curlicues in the face of everyone who tried to break us up. I knew I could count on her!

She hugs me with her arms and legs, pulling me tightly against her, burying her mouth in the spot where shoulder meets neck. I am almost outside myself, watching as our bodies mingle together, and out of nowhere the realization hits me.

This is all Doug's fault.

Emily loves me. She always has. But then Doug came along, with his powerful job and fat wallet, and convinced her that she was missing something.

She must have told him that she had a boyfriend, and he didn't care. He just dismissed me, cast me aside as if I were an annoying kid. I was someone in the way of what he wanted, and he thought he could just crush me under the weight of his huge ego. But he doesn't even know me! Clearly Doug has grown far too confident, and even if he lives to be 100, he will never respect someone like me.

But for all Doug knows, I could be a black belt. Or a gun nut, with an assortment of loaded rifles under my bed. Or, I could have a nine-inch hunting knife in my glove box. How can he be so nonchalant about this?

Yes, I'm being territorial, and I don't care. He is trying to take what is mine, and it's awakened several million years' worth of evolution in me.

I'm too passive about a lot of things. I've always been an easy mark because I didn't fight back. But what if I finally did?

I am just angry enough to hurt Doug right now. Maybe angry enough to kill him. If he were here, maybe I could rip his insides out and watch as buckets of blood gush out of him, just like those victims in the movie.

In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing Doug from behind, clutching a handful of his well-coiffed hair and yanking his head violently back as I slit his throat from one side to the other, feeling the warm rush of blood over my forearms, hearing the wet gurgle as he strains to draw a final breath.

Reality comes flooding back to me and suddenly I am back in my room. I can hear the grunts, which I barely recognize, though they come from my own throat, can hear the bed creak and groan frantically, like an old amusement park ride; and I can see my forearm across Emily's neck and her pained grimace as she tries desperately to breathe.

"Holy shit!" I say, pulling my arm off of her neck. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry about it," she says, pressing our lips back together.

Could it be she enjoyed that?

Next... Chapter 8: A double decaf and a skin graft

I TOLD SOMEONE

You knew it was gonna happen eventually... no, not OJ being arrested again or Britney getting unhot.

I kept this blog secret from my family for three years, that's right, three, before I finally broke down and told my brother Greg. Why? Well, I was bored, and there was nothing good on TV...

The truth is, Greg reads a lot of books, and, no offense to you fuckers, but I wanted some feedback from somebody whose sanity I could verify. So, I gave him the link, and he looked around a bit.

I think he likes what he saw. Or, at least he didn't demand that I undergo psychiatric evaluation.

Greg just sent me a comment. Guess I'll post it here, since he's family and all... I asked him to send me a post every so often as well!

PS Keep readin', chapter 7 is on the way dawgs!

Stevo


Hey Stevie Yo what up bro- I have never posted before but figured I should drop in and say nice work, good stuff..... Greg

Chapter 6: Working for a Living

Chapter 1 begins here

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You'd think a 25-year-old guy would love the independence of living alone. But lately, I hate it.

Anything more than 30 minutes in front of the TV makes me question the intelligence of the human race, so I usually wind up at my computer. Of course, these days, surfing the internet only leads me to one place.

It doesn't matter how hot the porn video, or how addicting the game. Regardless of what I am doing, my eyes flit nervously back and forth to that little icon in the bottom right corner of my screen, the one which tells me everything Emily said online that day.

I curse my lack of will power and tell myself that I don't care what her IMs say, but all the while I know I will fail. I will watch as my right hand, acting on its own, slides the mouse over and clicks twice, and my eyes will open wider and my mouth will go dry as I eagerly read, then re-read, every line of every conversation. And, depending on what words are on the screen, I will either soar with relief or wallow in agony.

I wake up earlier each day. After showering, I wander the apartment, cleaning sinks, toilets and windows that are already spotless, then stare longingly at my PC before forcing myself into the car and on the road to the office. My job has been the one thing keeping me from insanity since this happened.

After arriving at work today, I sat at my desk and looked out the window. It was still dark.

My company, High-Grade Temps, places construction workers and factory laborers in short-term assignments around Boston. Todd, who runs the company with his wife, Sheila, hired me as an account manager after I graduated three years ago. I majored in marketing, and this was really more of a sales job, but I saw the potential right away. Everywhere you look in downtown Boston, there is a huge, expensive, complicated construction project going on, and there are not nearly enough workers to go around. I was no salesman, but I didn't need to be. I never had to call around looking for business. Construction firms found me and begged for workers, sometimes telling me to name my price.

I had been with High-Grade for about a year when AtlantiCorps, one of the biggest placement firms in the country, opened an office ten miles from ours. Though they are based in Dallas, AtlantiCorps smelled the ripe Boston market half a country away.

Jared, one of my fellow account reps, was the first to quit. He refused to say where he was going, but we all suspected it was AtlantiCorps. Then, one employee after another followed suit, each submitting a formally-worded resignation letter that looked suspiciously like the one before.

I walked into the office one cold April morning, and the emptiness of the place hit me like a two by four. We had ten employees left, down from a high of 35. Atlantic had pulled our workforce out from under us.

Todd called me into his office. "Eric, we've lost a lot of good people. We need to recruit more account managers, fast. Neither Sheila nor I have time to run the day-to-day business here anymore, so we want to promote you to General Manager."

"Me? What about Gordy?" I said, instinctively.

The GM position would be challenging. Some problems would be out of my control. I'd be blamed for things I could do nothing about, and--

"Gordy's been here five months, Eric. We think you're the best candidate. And, of course, there would be a raise in it for you..."

AtlantiCorps did not offer me a job. They didn't even contact me. Slam-dunk promotions did not come along every day; I had no logical choice but to take it. Still, I waited almost a week to formally accept, and I only did it then because Todd threatened to look elsewhere. But I'm really glad I took the job.

I've learned a lot, and have served the company well. Show me a form, and I can fill it out in my sleep. Ask me a question, and I can answer it while doing three other things. My inbox is constantly filled with problems that others could not solve, and I love being the guy who can take care of them.

We're back up to 15 employees now, and yes, our overhead is a lot lower than it was when we had 35. But AtlantiCorps has taken a lot of our business away, too, so there's also a lot less money. Todd has been stressing about that quite a bit lately.

He continually reminds me that our account managers should average one placement per day, and that more than half of them do not. I reply that we're all working as hard as we can, that we're not out there partying. "I'm aware," he'll say.

I always thought Todd was exaggerating. But, last week, I realized just how bad things have gotten. "If the next six weeks don't pick up, we're gonna have to start layoffs," he said.

Summer is long gone, and that was our busy season. How the hell were we going to find new business now, in the middle of fall?

"We better find it somewhere," he said, and I noticed he wouldn't look me in the eye.

After all I've done for him, it would really suck if Todd fired me.


Next... Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

Chapter 1 begins here

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"I found this on the printer. Is it yours?" Michelle says, placing two pages of song lyrics on my desk.

"Yeah, I made a mix CD for Emily and I was just... printing out the lyrics."

"Eric, can I talk to you for a second?" she asks, sitting across from me before I can answer.

I brace myself. She is going to give me an earful about Emily, as she occasionally does. She can be annoying, but I'm flattered that she wants to help.

"Eric, sometimes girls don't like so much attention--"

"I know you mean well," I say. "But you don't know the story."

"That's the problem. There's always a story. You're always... sucking up to her for some reason."

Michelle always seems to get away with her attitude. No one ever gets angry with her. In a way, I can understand it--Michelle is beautiful. How can I possibly raise my voice to her as I admire her flawlessly straight blonde hair, and her smooth skin, which manages a healthy glow without a speck of makeup? It's as if someone plucked her off a midwestern farm and dropped her into our office.

"Michelle, you don't understand."

"Explain it to me."

I don't know why she cares. The cynic in me wants to believe that she's just nosy, that she wants scoopage to share with her coworkers. But it doesn't matter, anyway. I have nothing to hide. I am proud that I found Emily. Why wouldn't I want to share our story?

I was Emily's RA in college. She came to me crying one day because she had a huge history exam and she couldn't get through her reading. So I sat down to study with her.

She would read the same sentence five times and completely forget it a minute later. I had her read it out loud, and she kept losing her place on the page. Finally, I read a few pages to her, and she picked right up on it. She actually had an amazing memory.

After that, I helped her study all the time. She would draw little pictures in her notebook while I read to help her comprehend things. I even read into a tape recorder for her sometimes, so she could play it back later.

Most of Emily's issues are workable when we put our heads together. I always try to think of things from her perspective, and act accordingly. One example is the CD I just made: It's a lot easier for her to read when she can hear the words at the same time. She loves music, so listening to a song while reading the words is a great way to sharpen her skills. Hence, my printout of the lyrics.

Michelle looks at me, expressionless. Clearly, she had no idea about this side of Emily.

"Did she end up graduating?" she asks.

"With honors. We found a method that worked, and that was all she needed. All throughout school, no one tried to help her. They just said she had ADD and put her on drugs. She told me I was the only one in her whole life who cared if she did well or not."

I wait for a response. I'm pleased with myself, because it's not often that Michelle is speechless.

"So then you guys hooked up?" she manages, finally.

But it didn't happen that way. Emily and I did not get together until after I graduated.

I was driving to work on an icy road one January morning, and the driver in the next lane lost control of his rented truck. He rolled it, and the truck landed right on top of my car. The airbag didn't deploy, and I got crushed against the steering wheel, breaking my sternum, along with eight ribs.

After a few days, the doctors and nurses tried to get me out of bed, but I wouldn't budge. They can't put a cast on broken ribs, obviously, and I was scared to death one of them would snap loose and puncture my lung or something.

Emily found out about the accident and drove to the hospital in a snowstorm to see me. She said, "I'm not leaving this hospital until you get up and walk," and then she smiled at me. I can still see her face now, her nose and cheeks red from the cold, her teeth just as white as the snow on the windowsill.

That smile was more powerful than any drug they could have pumped into me. Suddenly, I forgot all about the pain. I stuck out my arm, and she held it tight as I wobbled uneasily to my feet. "You did it!" Emily said.

A nurse stuck her head in the door, then ran to the nurses' station, shouting, "His girlfriend got him out of bed!", and the thought of Emily as my girlfriend made it a lot harder to stay standing.

Emily said she knew she loved me the minute I got out of bed and stood up. We've been together ever since.

I helped Emily when no one else would, not even her teachers or her family. I made her a priority, and she did the same for me when I really needed someone. She would not have done that if she did not care for me.

Michelle didn't know the story, and now that she does, maybe she will understand. But even if she doesn't, I don't care. I don't care if every single person I know hates Emily. I love her. And I am going to work just as hard as I did before to prove it.

"That's sweet," Michelle says. "I'm sure she cares about you, but--"

"But what?"

"She doesn't appreciate you."

"I should probably get back to work," I say.

Next... Chapter 6: Working for a Living

Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

Chapter 1 begins here

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"What's this for?" Emily says, as I hand her an oversized gift bag.

"Last week you said you still had the same beach bag from high school, so I thought it was time for a new one."

"Oh, it's an L.L. Bean! And what did you put in here?"

"What's a beach bag without towels and sunblock?"

"You got me a bathing suit, too?" she says, pulling a black bikini out of the bag.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it!"

She twirls her long, black hair with two fingers, then slides it smoothly behind her ear. Her big eyes turn up to me with a flicker, and my knees go weak. She beams at me with the warm smile of a happy girl who knows she is truly loved, and I know right away that this was all I had to do; I just had to give her the attention she deserved. It's different now, I can feel it. Could it really have been this easy?

"I suppose you want me to model this for you," she says, holding the bikini against her torso.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

I haven't checked her IMs in a couple of days. I don't much care what they say, anyhow.

I have forgiven Emily for whatever she did with Doug, if she did anything at all. I screwed up, but from now on I am going to give her so much love that she couldn't possibly want it from anyone else. Isn't that what monogamy is all about? Being with the person who treats you the best?

The phone rings, and my blood goes cold.

It's 7:30 at night. The only person who could be calling me at this hour is Emily, and she never calls for idle chit-chat. Maybe she's going out with him this weekend, and she's calling to make up an excuse for why she won't be able to see me. Maybe everything I did for her was not enough. Maybe Doug's expensive car and fancy clothes excite her in a way I never could. Maybe he makes her laugh louder than I do, impresses her more than I do, makes her lip quiver harder than I do when they are in bed together.

At last, I force myself to pick up the phone. "Did you call that landlord yet?" Mom says.

I burst out laughing. I've never been so glad to get bitched out in my life.

I fall asleep in front of the TV and awaken to the phone ringing at 9:30.

"I'm going to Renee's house. We're having girls' movie night," Emily says.

"I--"

"You've been calling to say goodnight lately, so I just wanted to let you know I was going over there."

"I'll just call your cell," I say, more to hear her reponse than anything else.

"We're gonna be watching a movie," she says. "Plus Renee's having some problems and she's probably gonna be pretty chatty. So..."

"I can't even call you to say goodnight?"

"What's the big deal?" she snaps.

Her tone sets my anger ablaze; my fist closes tightly around the receiver and my ears burn with rage. I know I shouldn't do this, but...

"The big deal is that you are pretty unfair to me sometimes. I bend over backwards for you and you don't even appreciate it!"

"I thanked you for the beach bag!" she shouts.

"This is about more than a stupid beach bag, Emily!"

"Whatever. I'm hanging up. I'll call you tomorrow."

This was a huge mistake. I should not have let my anger get in the way; now, things are more complicated than before.

"I'm sorry I yelled. I love you, Emily."

Click.

* * *

RedFoxx85: why does he want you to shave?

SugarKookie: he hates hair down there. I dunno why but it freaks him out, he won't go near it unless i shave

RedFoxx85: so hes holding out on you? maybe he found out about your crabs :-D

SugarKookie: stfu lol

RedFoxx85: maybe he likes the preteen look. if he starts talking like elmo, run

SugarKookie: seriously i dunno what to do, eric asked me to shave one time and i said no

RedFoxx85: ohhhh, so now hes gonna wonder why you did it

SugarKookie: well ya...

RedFoxx85: didn't he just get you a bikini

SugarKookie: o yea!!! ill just tell him i shaved so i could wear the bikini

SugarKookie: i already put it on for him but it wasnt on long ;-)

RedFoxx85: u r so evil lol


Next...Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

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

_____________________________________________________


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.