A New Message In Self Help Books: WTFU!

Entertaining read.

New Popular Self-Help Books Share One Message: You’re an Idiot

I think the headline of this article is a bit cold and inappropriately titled, given the connotation of idiot. I’d probably retitle it to the title of this blog post, a subtle but appropriate difference while being no less intense.

The article reminded me of being single a few years ago, and before my wonderful wife came into my life. I got interested in anything that I thought would improve my conquistadorian dating arsenal. Besides doing things like watching Sex and the City, reading dating books, and watching how to pick up women in a way that they don’t think you just want to get in their pants DVDs, I saw a friend reading a copy of He’s Just Not That Into You. I thought I should definitely read this book. Like counter-intelligence, it was important to learn what the enemy was thinking (heh… no wonder it took so long to get married).

The book, written buy a guy (Greg Behrendt), turned out to be a very fascinating read. If you are woman, married or not, I highly recommend the taking of a day out of an upcoming weekend to read this book. Why? Because Greg tells it like it is. I think there were only a handful of assertions he made throughout the book that I disagreed with, but really, we’re talking like five out of loads. As a guy, I have to say that women are silly if they don’t listen to the message of his book, which equates to, “Stand up for yourself! Mr. Shining White Knight might be coming for you, but 99% probably not, so come up with a new game plan. If men are metaphorically walking all over you, kick them to the curb. Believe me, there will be more.”

It took the article above to remind me about this book, but my point: helping the self requires being responsible for the self, and being responsible requires telling the truth, not being coddled.

I hope self-help books all go the way of Greg’s.

February 21, 2008 | Filed Under the written word | 3 Comments 

6 Word Memoir

Got an email from my friend Alex through the writing club that I’m a member of, and thought the idea was a lot of fun.

The article that Alex found: If You Could Write a Memoir in Six Words, What Would It Say?

And the site it originated from: www.sixwordmemoir.com

Mine came to me in a moment:

Wish I told the truth sooner

February 9, 2008 | Filed Under the written word | 4 Comments 

Plain Text vs. Rich Text Format

A couple of months ago I got hooked on the blog Becoming a Writer Seriously after the author and maintainer, Tom Colvin, made a comment here. I’m now a regular reader of his blog, and recommend it to anyone who spends even the slightest amount of time writing anything.

I read one of his earlier articles, In Praise of Rich Text Format – The Universal Format for Writers, and started thinking about how I archive my stories on my laptop. I didn’t do anything about it at the time, but his argument for lucid document format choosing stuck in my head.

Last month I received my first email from a friend with an attachment in the new, highly annoying, highly incompatible docx format from Microsoft Word. It didn’t take long to find some docx converters, but this further annoyance made me think once again about all the different document formats, free and proprietary, scattered across my computer. The receipt of this docx document prompted me to take action.

After some back of the napkin cost-benefit analysis, I decided to go with only two document formats for my writing. The majority of my writing is now done in Plain Text. Plain text forces me to concentrate on just the writing during the draft stages. It’s hard enough for me to avoid procrastination and just write, and one way I’ll procrastinate is spending hours formatting unfinished works, only to reformat them again the next week… sometimes even the next day. Plain text enforces a no frills writing environment, one procrastination problem solved. Plain text also works very will with Subversion, the revision control system I now use and love. This combination makes it very easy to save many drafts of my larger works, easily compare different versions of the work, recall older versions, and not litter my computer with multiple “draft” copies or bloated, versioned copies of Word or OpenOffice documents. And, of course, anyone on any computer can read plain text format.

A couple of my works require extensive formatting beyond just tabs and whitespace. These stories would lose their meaning without the bold, italics, and altered indentations. For these documents I now use Rich Text Format (RTF) for the reason Tom suggests in his article:

[T]he more active we become as writers, the more likely it is that we must trade our work with others, manipulate our text in other programs, like page layout programs, or post our articles on a blog. There is one format that can easily move our text, along with its formatting of type font, boldface and italics, to other writers and programs — and even between PC’s and Mac’s. Of course, that format is RTF, or Rich Text Format.

I believe, and hope, that (X)HTML will win out in the future as the universal document format, but right now that format is too geared for web based usage. Until that day I will stick to RTF and Plain Text.

December 17, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | 5 Comments 

Reflections on a writers workshop

Last Sunday I attended an excellent writers workshop. The California Writers Club, Southbay Branch hosted and James Dalessandro led. Too information rich to perform a total brain dump here, but some highlights were:

October 23, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | 1 Comment 

Ideal Writing Critique Group Rules

August 16, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | 1 Comment 

Books I’d like to see written

I don’t want to write these books, but I’d love to see someone else do it:

July 7, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | Leave a Comment 

Love Story

I’ve been having a bit of an identity crisis lately. That’s really okay with me. For all the facets of my identity that I like, there are many that I don’t. Perhaps the ones I don’t like will disappear and find someone else to bother.

Recently, I’ve been playing an inordinate amount of video games (which will spin off into another post, someday, when writing the post about video games won’t take away from the time I have to play them). My family and close friends will shrug their shoulders and say, “What’s new?” No no, not like casual games of solitaire, we’re talking I don’t move from the chiropractor-business-generating slouch in front of my laptop for 8 hours or until I conquer the current world in Age of Wonders: Shadow Magic, whichever lasts longer.

And I love to tell stories. This is the story of how Janna and I met and fell in love. This story has bad words in it and talks about sex. It doesn’t have pornography, if that’s what you are looking for, you can go here. So for those of you who are related to me and didn’t get the hint, this is the last warning to stop reading now.

Good for you, you made it this far. It’s story time.

* * *

On September 24th, 2004 I arrived home from my 37 day escape to Europe to a loving hug from my dad outside of customs at LAX. I felt elated to be with someone who I didn’t have to introduce myself to, or attempt to converse with in my broken Gerspanglish. I also felt wacked out from being on a plane that chased the sun across the globe and didn’t lose the race.

Los Angeles, California isn’t my home town. Ventura, California is my home town. My dad put up with my jet-lagged crazy blabber for the next 80 miles during the drive home. He heard it all, from London to Amsterdam to Italy (and Italian food) to Judith. Judith was the German woman who I had fallen in lust with, who lived 6,500 miles away. No dad, it’ll work, I’m telling you, it’ll work.

After a couple of days rest at my dad’s place I got into my old white Honda Civic (amazing, I lived for 37 days without a car in Europe and loved it) and left to restart my life in America. My friend, James Ogden, had a spare room in his apartment in San Jose, CA. This worked perfectly as my previous employer, deCarta, had my old job available for me if I wanted it. Maxed out credit cards and the promise of good pay waiting for me? You bet I wanted my old job back.

One night, a couple of weeks after I moved in with James, he and I were chatting about women. James said that he had gotten all mushy over some chick named Janna. I had no idea who she was. He said she sings jazz and is hot. I thought of some singer, wrapped in a red gown, draped provocatively over a grand piano. He said he was totally hot for her. I figured he was a healthy horny guy, just like me.

A couple of weeks passed and I finally met Janna. Turns out she and I both volunteered our time at Landmark Education, and happened to be doing so on the same night. Janna was tall, looked taller than me even if she broke the heels off both her shoes. Big blue eyes. Every now and then this meek deer in headlights look washed over her face. Awww, that’s cute, she’s a nice girl. Good for James for finding a nice girl.

Events happen. James comes home and looks sad. I ask him about it. He says that things didn’t work out with Janna. Janna asked James never to call him again?!

“What?” I think, “But they matched so well!” James looked really down. No one picks on hurts my friends and gets away with it. I now dub Janna evil mean bitch from hell who doesn’t know how to pick the right man.

Events happen. Things don’t work out with me and Judith. We meet in New York for New Year’s Eve. After all the I love yous on the phone, I get reminded that love and sex are not related. I didn’t fly all the way out to New York not to have sex. I say I’d rather go spend a celibate evening by myself in my own bed, so I catch an early flight back and leave her in New York.

Events happen. I start running for exercise. Janna (who I still dislike on behalf of my James’ not really anymore broken heart) and I share mutual running friends. Janna and I end up running together a couple of times, and I’m thankful there are other people in the group so I can ignore her. One morning only she and I show up.

“I guess it’s just you and me, babe,” Janna says cordially.

“Yeah, BABE,” I reply as snotty as I know how.

We talk for a few minutes and I run out of nice things to say to her. Imagine for a moment that you aren’t really a runner (and if you aren’t, that’s easy). Now pretend you’ve just started running. In the beginning running one half mile without stopping hurts. Add in enough training to run a mile, but accompanied with heavy breathing and a sweaty back, belly and butt crack. Now imagine running 3 miles with a person you don’t like, who doesn’t look like they are in better shape than you, but they damn well are. Finally, run in annoyed silence for 2.75 of the 3 miles. Thank god that ended.

Events happen. I start dating a woman named Penni. Janna and I wind up in the same seminar together. We then wind up in the same group together in the seminar. Why is this awful woman haunting me?

I start to wonder exactly why I don’t like her so much. It’s tiring not to like someone I have to spend even a minimal amount of time with. Time to get to know Janna.

And sure enough we talk. We talk about the seminar assignments. We talk about all the good things in life, like food and sex and running. And then she tells me this deep dark secret.

“I haven’t had sex in 2 years.”

“What?” I say. “Get out of here.”

“No really,” she says.

“Look,” and I pause and look her up and down. “You look good. If I was single, I’d hit that. But I’m not. Here’s your extra credit homework assignment. Go get laid.”

I tell her there are lots of lonely, horny men clawing over every scrap of flesh on the no-strings-attached section of craigslist. I know, I’ve been one of them.

Next week I found out that she actually took my advice. Our seminar group met for lunch, but you could see Janna’s glow across the crowded bar during daylight. And all of a sudden it occurred to me that I was completely wrong to dislike Janna. When James talked about her, I imagined someone who was all nice and good like. Someone who went home and studied Latin and in spare time hugged small orphan kittens during community neutering procedures.

I didn’t imagine some woman who, after sitting down at the table, responded to my question of,

“How was it getting some?”

With:

“It was great. The perfect combination of sweet/nice and dirty/nasty (emphasis on the latter).”

No siree. That’s not James’s sort of woman, that’s MY sort of woman. That thought came and went and I went back to my life.

A while later I broke up with Penni. Yay, singledom again, except this time the, “Yay,” is sarcastic. I’m annoyed and lonely, and am resigned that there isn’t a woman out there that I will ever have a fulfilling relationship with.

August 18, 2005 to be exact, Janna and I sling some emails back and forth when we should both be working.

From: Jeremy Osborne
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 11:25 AM
To: Janna Mordan
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

How’s single life going?

From: Janna Mordan
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 11:30 AM
To: Jeremy Osborne
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

I’m having a great week. :-)

Met a guy that reminded me that what I actually want is to fall in love! I’d forgotten and gotten all resigned to just dating and having casual sex! That was fun and all, but I want risky, juicy, vulnerable, committed romance, you know? I’m excited about seeing this guy again (saturday), but I’m also really enlivened by just getting the possiblity of all that.

Thanks for asking.

You?

From: Jeremy Osborne
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 11:35 AM
To: Janna Mordan
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

I’m excited about getting exactly what I want, and for the first time I want to be a father when I finally get married… but now I’m back to having fun and shagging, especially while I’m still rebounding.

A friend of mine and I decided that calling ourselves single is really just nonsense. I mean, what the heck is being single anyway? We’re surrounded by billions of people on this planet, kind of hard to really be single unless we go lock ourselves away in a cave.

Before you stop all your casual sex, let’s go out and get drunk and shag one night ;) Unless it’s already stopped, then you should go and be in love with this guy.

No email appears for awhile. I start thinking of ways to apologize for so bluntly asking her out on a “date.” Then my instant messenger pops up and says that I have a new message from Janna Mordan.

From: Janna Mordan
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 12:20 PM
To: Jeremy Osborne
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

Shit, Jeremy… do you know part of why I was upset at you way back when was for not hitting on me, because I knew your reputation and habits. And now I say I’m inventing the possibility of love and commitment and all that and you ask if I want to shag!?!…

…well actually, yeah, I’d be up for it, except I don’t know when, and all bets might be off after I see this guy again this weekend. You off of your two weeks on south beach yet anyways?

From: Jeremy Osborne
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 12:42 PM
To: Janna Mordan
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

HAHA! You crack me up. I knew something was up when I looked at you last night, <making up shit that empowers me>because there was this massive chemical attraction<done making up shit>. I’m already easing off the south beach diet and using it as a basis for being healthy, but I’m already to incorporate alcohol back into it. My night just freed up, what are you doing this evening?

From: Janna Mordan
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 1:01 PM
To: Jeremy Osborne
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

I am in fact free this evening. Around 8 or 9? You *are* totally making shit up, but I love it! And I’m certainly not going to argue with you when it works in my favor… ;-)

I’m helping my folks move stuff for the next hour, then I’m off to work. Call me after 2 and we’ll work it out….

From: Jeremy Osborne
Sent: Thursday, August 18, 2005 1:04:39 PM
To: Janna Mordan
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

You bad girl. Mroaw! I’ll call you.

That night Janna shows up at my apartment complex. I’m pretending everything is all normal; I’m in the laundry room making sure I have some clean underwear when Janna knocks on the laundry room door. I open the door and give her a big kiss on the lips.Janna: Hi.Jeremy: Hi!Janna [handing me a bottle of white wine]: I brought you this.”

Jeremy: What’s this for?

Janna: A peace offering.

We go inside, open the bottle of Madeira and leap into bed. And we do it. Three times. Fireworks. Explosions. No need to explain the noise (or the maker of the noise) to James because he didn’t sleep in the apartment that night. Oh yeah, I’d have to explain that thing to him later, the thing about me having sex with the woman he used to like.The next day Janna leaves with a goodbye kiss and heads off to work. I do the same and find this in my email box later on in the afternoon.

From: Janna Mordan
To: Jeremy Osborne
Sent: Friday, August 19, 2005 2:03:41 PM
Subject: RE: Hi Group!

Hey sexy,

Yesterday I had some concerns about us getting together, and I was just looking today, and they all disappeared between last night and now. Thanks for being so understanding last night. I’m not left with any regrets, just a smile on my face and sore thighs ;)

Don’t get attached to this but… just for today I’m totally infatuated with you. ;) I’m glad I’ve got another day and a half to cool out before I go on another date.

Fondly,
Janna

For about a month Janna and I dated each other and other people, both of us going about business as usual. One September evening I get a call from her. This is how I remember the call going.Janna: Hi Jeremy.Jeremy: Hi Janna. How are you?Janna: Good. I’ve got something I want to ask you, and it’s scary for me.

Jeremy: Uh, okay.

Janna: I want to go out with just you.

Jeremy: WHOA! That’s a bad idea. I’m finally listening to my mom and not shacking up with anyone for six months, and that leaves 5 months to go on my current count.

Janna: Look, I love you and I know you love me and the truth is I just want to date you and I don’t want to date anyone else.

Jeremy: I can understand, but dating me is a really bad idea. Look, I’m going to stay single right now, you can date just me if you want to, but I’m not committing.

Janna: Okay, so the real truth is I just don’t want you fucking other women. I want you all to myself. But, if that’s the way it is, fine. I still love you.

Jeremy: I love you, too.

*Click*

A month later, after spending almost every night with Janna, Janna and I started seeing each other exclusively. Or, as I put it to her:

“Don’t you know how much of a loser I am when I’m in relationships? I’ve had two failed engagements, I’ve cheated on my girlfriends, I’ve gone to naughty massage parlors, I’ve done things worth not mentioning. You’re my last shot at relationships, if it doesn’t work out with you, I’m really going to stay single for the rest of my life. I’m giving it just one more shot.”

* * *

On February 25th, 2006, Janna and I moved in together.

We’ve spent the last year and 8 eight months together and happy. The 18th day of every month is still cause for celebration.

On May 19th, 2007, Janna and I will (finally) be getting married.

Not only am I happy, Janna, my wife to be, is happy, too. The impossible has finally happened.

May 3, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | 2 Comments 

Wikinomics

Just finished the book Wikinomics by Don Tapscott and Anthony D. Williams. Excellent work. In the wiki tradition, instead of telling you about the book, go and participate in the writing of its spin-off at The Wikinomics Playbook.

My favorite two paragraphs are on the bottom page 275:

Sure, ask any manager if they would prefer to compete in a “well-mannered” economy where every new innovation was subject to their approval, and they would overwhelmingly respond in the affirmative. But a well-mannered economy is not today’s reality.

Stability is dead. The idea that you can invent a business that will never be disrupted by technology is over. As blogger and science fiction author Cory Doctorow put it, “Blacksmiths weeping into their beer about their inability to sell horseshoes in the era of railroads doesn’t make horseshoes more popular. Blacksmiths learning how to become auto mechanics, on the other hand, puts food on their table.”

Long live collaboration!

April 5, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | Leave a Comment 

Arsenic and Old Tranny Hookers

This post is Copyright 2007 Jeremy Osborne, All Rights Reserved.

7/22/2005 – Written by: Jeremy Osborne, Vincent Lowe, and Brooks Graham for a 24-hour script/filming competition. (Ultimately, this script, which was basically my script, was scrapped. I still like my version of the script better than the filmed version and post it here for a third round of reading.)

Genre: Horror
Character to Portray: Hercules
Circumstance: Flight
Theme: How absurd we are to think we know anything

Main Characters:

Sally: (Aubrey) 29 year old woman. Energetic, a grafter, a pickpocket, a barfly, edgy, a slut, visualize Joan Jett and Jodie Foster, a schemer, a self-centered woman.

Mark: (Vincent) Early 40s, a drifter, ex-murderer, done a lot of shit in life. He’s reformed, settled in his life, in love with this woman he just met about four hours ago.

Minor Characters:

Narrator: (Susan) Narrates certain things.

Interviewee #1: Country Bumpkin who talks about Mark killing the serpents. Tortured small animals as children.

Interviewee #2: Urban neveau riche. Unnerved that she/he lived next to someone who seemed so normal who killed his wife and children.

Interviewee #3: A recovered alcoholic. Defends that Mark is a great guy because he passed the 12 Step Program.

Interviewee #4: The princess. Describes what a great guy Mark is for saving her from a gang of the Urban Serpents.

Interviewee #5: Man or Woman who lives in an Apartment Complex. Knows Sally, who ends up Killing Mark.

Act 1:

[Door opens and light floods the bedroom. Bed and normal bedroom furnishings in backround. The actors can be seen briefly in detail, staggering in from the door, obviously drunk. The man staggers in first, the woman, slumps against the wall next to the door.

The man walks back to the door, slams the door shut on his way to making out with the woman as she pulls him against her.]

Mark: [Breaking the kiss] Janet, where’s your bathroom?

Sally: You drunk, it’s behind you. Don’t bother about my stuff.

[Mark staggers towards the bathroom, visible only by silhouette.]

Sally: [Turns television on and we hear the "television power on audio"]

[Cut to Interview #1 after the door closes to the bathroom]

Scene with Interviewee #1: I just can’t believe… [pause] … that Bobby and Teddy had to go the way they did.

Narrator: Bobby?

Interviewee #1: Yeah, my anacondas. I woke up one morning to Bobby and Teddy just lying there. Who could have done something like this. I’m going to interview my neighbors from now on, even if they live a mile away.[Cut to the bedroom scene.]

[Mark walks towards the bathroom, turns back and grabs Sally in an embrace. Sally pushes him away...]

Sally: Go clean up, and come back here fast.

[Mark walks towards the bathroom, flooding the room with a bit of light before closing the bathroom door.]

[Sally channel surfs for some time]

[Cut to Interview #2, pause for a moment on Emotionally moved Interviewee.]

Narrator: Go on, we’d like to hear what you have to say.

Interviewee #2: I, really can’t believe it. I mean this stuff is supposed to happen on television.

Narrator: What stuff?

Interviewee #2: I went over to Mark’s house to have a beer with him and no one answered the door, so I let myself in. And, I’m sorry, I can’t talk about what I saw there. I’m really sorry, I thought I could, but I can’t.

Narrator: It’s okay, take a deep breath.Interviewee #2: I mean, Janet and the kids, lying on the floor… I’m sorry, I can’t continue, I’m really sorry.

Act 2:

[Sally channel surfs, lighting in the background changes. Sally, after sometime of channel surfing, stops at a certain channel. Narrator begins speaking.

Sally ignores the Narrator, silhouette shows Sally looking through a wallet.]

[Cut to Interview #3]

Interviewer: So how did that make you feel.

Interviewee #3: I have to say that only God can make a difference with people, not drugs. Mark did what he did, and I find strength for myself.

Interviewer: I mean I know you consider yourself a recovering addict, but let us know more.

Interviewee #3: Mark gives me strength. I know that I can make it through because of how he made it through the twelve labors.

Interviewer: Don’t you mean the twelve steps?

Interviewee #3: Yes, I mean the twelve steps. Mark talked about it like the twelve labors, but I just thought he meant what we always prayed over.

Interviewer: Which Prayer is that?

[Fade back to the silhouetted bedroom with Interview #3 voice over of the prayer voice: God grant me the strength to accept what I cannot change...]

[Sally finishes looking through Mark's wallet, tossing it aside and keeping what appears to be a card from the wallet.]

[Fade back to Interview #4]

Narrator: So you say you told us earlier that without him you wouldn’t be alive?

Interviewee #4: I told you earlier. God, you just don’t listen to, jeez. I told my mom that this is just a waste of time. Look, if he wasn’t there, I’d be dead, plain as can be.

Narrator: What do you mean?

Interviewee #4: On Friday night I was out and got lost. I wondered into the alley, someone must have spiked my drink, because I don’t drink. But anyway, I walked down the alley, and these guys jumped me, but this guy who I had danced with earlier came out of nowhere and kicked all of their asses.

Narrator: One guy?

Interviewee #4: All of them, single handed. I couldn’t even believe it, and the fucker just walked away after that. I couldn’t even say thank you.

Act 3:

[Fade back to the bedroom. Sally tosses aside the card in her hand.

Bathroom door opens, flooding the room with light for a moment until Mark shuts off the bathroom lamp.]

Sally: Come to daddy, Mark!

Mark: [Stumbling out of the bathroom doorway towards the bed.] Who the hell are you talking to, I never introduced myself to you.

Sally: Yeah you did, about an hour ago, at the last call.

Mark: Whatever, here I come baby.

[Mark stumbles over to the bed. Sally grabs him in an embrace, pulls him underneath her.

Sally mounts Mark and pulls her shirt over her head.]

Sally: So Mark, I never did tell you my name.

Mark: I’m not here to find out your name.

Sally: But I bet you’d love to hear how close we’ve become over time.

Mark: What do you mean?

Sally: Don’t worry, just close your eyes darling.

[Sally reaches over and picks up the nearest heavy object, lifting it over her head.]

[Final shot of bedroom with Sally mounting Mark, bringing heavy object down over head.]

Interviewer: You say you lived next door to her?

Interviewee #5: Yep, for 3 years. Never a peep from her, but late at night I heard her crying a couple of times a week.

Interviewer: About what?

Interviewee #5: I don’t know, just a lot of crying, something about someone she lost, close to her heart. Anyway, it’s a lot more quiet without her next to me anymore. I get a lot more sleep.

February 21, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | Leave a Comment 

Yellow (a short-short story)

This post is Copyright 2007 Jeremy Osborne, All Rights Reserved.

She moved to Germany on business. I think she wanted a break. She promised it would make us money. I think the she had ulterior motives. She called me by phone, prepaid by me, more infrequently. I got interrupted by important business calls. She said it’ll soon be back to normal. I was told the trip would only last two weeks. She promised that two weeks ago.

I get to fuck myself for another night. She doesn’t have time for romance during her morning. I ask if she loves me. She says I do, I miss you, I can’t wait to come home, and oh no, bye-bye or I’ll miss the train. I ask the dial tone if she’ll call me again when she catches the train. She doesn’t hear a word I say.

I pull my sweaty hand out of my shorts. She moans on my laptop next to me. I watch the men piston their meat into her ass and pussy. She stares back at me, sandwiched between the sweaty steaks. I rub her clit into an LCD rainbow. She wants me. I close my eyes, open mouth, extend tongue and lick. She tastes like plastic. I need more tonight. She needs me. I drag my aching balls across the sheets. She whispers for me to rescue her.

I drop the phone book with a thump on my bed. She stares at me from the entries in index ‘E’.I punch the seven letters into my phone.

“Hello?” she says.

“Hi,” I say.

“Yes,” she says, “Where are you located?”

I gulp, my crotch pooling sweat.

“$200 an hour,” she says.

“Let me call back.” I say.

“Hello?” she says after dialing another.

“Hi,” I stutter.

“$200 an hour,” she says.

“Yikes,” I say and try another.

“Hello?” says the familiar voice.

“How much for a massage?” I say.

“Look!” she says to me.

“What?” I say.

“How many times are you going to call?” she says.

“I figured I’d only call,” I say.

“You do want a massage, don’t you?” she says.

“I want her,” I say.

“Not a problem,” she says.

“Really?” I ask.

“How are you paying?” she asks.

“Do you take credit cards?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

I give in and produce the numbers.

“Thank you,” she says.

“How will I be billed?” I ask.

“Greenlawn Sculpting,” she says.

“Not obvious at all,” I say.

“It’s special landscaping,” she says.

“I live in an apartment,” I say

“What is your address?” she asks.

I give her my address and apartment passcode.

“She’ll arrive in an hour,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I have another call,” she says.

I hang up.

She knocks on the door. I open it. She stands there. I motion her inside and lock the door. She asks to freshen up. I point across the room. She locks the door behind her. I stand still for five minutes. She steps out in six.

My guts clench into a fist.

“So what would you like?” she asks.

I can’t answer.

“Do you have a bedroom?” she asks.

I point off to the left. She takes my hand and leads me away. I turn on the light. She points at the bed. I lie down. She lights candles nearby. I look over at her. She flicks the light switch off. I prop myself up on my elbows.

“What would you like rubbed?” she asks.

I lie face down and point at my neck. She touches my shoulders. I moan.

“Do you like that?” she asks.

I nod my face into the fabric. She rubs down my spine. I relax a little. She drops her hands to my obliques. I tense.

“You’re a sexy man,” she says.

I think most of my $200 funded that statement.

“Would you like to take off your clothes?” she asks.

I nod and modestly remove my outerwear.

“You’re so modest,” she says.

I flush and lie face down. She rubs my hair. I anticipate the best. She strokes my shoulders. I adjust myself a bit. She approaches my waist. I exhale. She heads south. I can’t believe this is happening. She brushes right on by me. I laugh under the sensation.

“You like how this feels?” she says.

“Of course,” I mumble. She rubs down my thighs. I grip the sheets. She traces her finger nails over my calves. I spread my legs just a bit. She reaches down underneath. I raise my waist the slightest. She bumps against me. I grow. She runs two hands up my spine. I tingle.

“Would you like to turn over?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

She smiles at me. I close my eyes. She traces my chest. I hope for what’s next. She catches a fingernail on my waistband. I brush her thigh with my hand. She squeezes my leg. I grow. She slows down and tugs on my shorts. I lift my hips. She pulls off my boxers. I bounce up.

“You are one happy boy,” she says.

“I’m not,” I say.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

She puts her hand over my mouth. I kiss her fingers. She straddles me. I don’t fight. She slips me inside. I feel squeezed apart. She moves. I come immediately. She circles her lips at me. I turn red. She bounces on top of me. I try to recover. She dismounts. I wear an unexpected condom. She snickers. I disinvite her from poker parties.

“You’re nice,” she says.

“Yes,” I lie.

“We have extra time,” she says.

I shrug. She double fists the condom away. I hear a flush. She lies down next to me. I act like a corpse.

“Thanks for asking for me,” she says.

“No problem,” I say.

“Can I sleep here?” she asks.

“You’re allowed to do that?” I ask.

“Are you allowed to have me over?” she asks.

I don’t say anything.

“Then we’re even,” she says.

I don’t say anything.

“Blow out the candles?” she asks.

I blow out the candles. She disappears in the dark. I close my eyes.

She leaves her card with me.

I never say a word about it. She suspects.

I stop calling her. She never comes home.

I call her. She pretends to be happy. I pretend she is, too.

February 9, 2007 | Filed Under the written word | 1 Comment 

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