Seems like sound advice.

 

So I dove in and tried working on that novel – as clichéd as it sounds – but haven’t made much headway beyond the odd character or two, some snatches of dialog and a bit of the plot: something about an ex-heroin addict art dealer/failed painter who’s wife murdered his ex-girlfriend from college – his artistic inspiration, his muse – to snag him for herself. I’ve managed to write a sort-of synopsis of about five pages in a dog-eared notebook that I left on my dining room table, and which has recently – and mysteriously - disappeared.

 

It’s been a little frustrating, having no inspiration. I felt like my own muse (such as it was) had suddenly dried up, got pissed off and left the building; or maybe was killed by my girlfriend, just like the poor schlep in my sort-of novel, as some sort of crazy punishment for my writing these sex stories about my life…

 

I felt drugged, sedated – listless, barren of ideas; the thought of writing another story about dicks and tits and ass was about as exciting as anticipating the sheer joy of a big old hangover after a long, weekend bender.

 

And then we – my girlfriend and I – went out to dinner with her brother and his wife to celebrate their daughters tenth birthday. I probably shouldn’t use anybody’s real name, since you never know who’s going to eventually read this.

 

So let’s call my girlfriend Diana, and her brother can be Hubby, and his wife… Oh, let’s call her Julia.

 

Ah, Julia.

 

It was just a nice, quiet dinner at their daughter’s favorite place: a local rib joint. We’ve gone out with them lots of times before. I wasn’t expecting to be inspired, or anything. But then, sitting across the table from the beautiful woman who, after the last eleven years, may as well be my sister-in-law…

 

Well…

 

My muse suddenly seems to have returned.

 

***

 

So here’s the deal: If you’ve been following along with my stories, you may have noticed a goofy, reoccurring theme in my writing – a theme that even I hadn’t fully realized until only recently, when my girlfriend somehow got the idea that I was cheating on her and decided to snoop around a little.

 

Amateur sleuth that she is, Diana booted up my computer and read most of my stories. Afterwards, during the ensuing argument(s) about who was it and why was I and just who the fuck was it and how could you do this (and so on), she pulled out the story ammo and fired a chunk of it straight back at me, not so nicely pointing out that I seemed to want to fuck her brother’s wife.

 

Oh, I said. Well, I said.

 

Ouch.

 

There was more like that; a lot of vague sputtering and apologizing on my part. None of it did much good; I was caught, like a fish on a hook. I did what I did, and I was found out, fair and square. I can’t deny the fact that the whole confrontation was embarrassing and what I did was hurtful and I felt like a shit-heel, even though – truthfully – I really didn’t actually do anything with anyone except via email, which regretfully is close enough to cheating for a lot of bad feelings to surface.

 

 

* If you’ll indulge me, here’s a little side note, a tidbit regarding the psychology of a woman who suspects her significant other of having an affair. Something I noticed and I find quite interesting, regarding my girlfriend’s reaction:

 

After she read my anonymous emails and some of my stories - several that are published here - the thing that most upset her wasn’t the fact that I’d lost my virginity to my aunt when I was five.

 

Or that I’d been bound and anally gang-raped by my freaky transgender high school French teacher and her gay friends during a Halloween party my senior year.

 

Or that I’d kept seeing her and one of her friends for several years after.

 

Or that I’d tried to kill an old friend and the creep he’d fallen in with while in prison, who had kidnapped and raped a girl who was an employee of mine, who I’d slept with once.

 

Or that my film career began as a porno director and sometime star…

 

And so on and so forth…

 

No – the thing that upset her, that almost ripped our relationship apart, was that I might – might – be having an affair.

 

I don’t really know what this means, other than she was pissed that I was e-fucking somebody – and therefore in her mind I was probably sleeping with them in real life too. Which – granted – is a completely valid concern, and I openly admit that I sent and read and enjoyed the dirty emails. So basically she was right, and I was cheating. Mentally, at least.

 

But you’d think the other stuff would have at least bothered her a little more than it seemed to.

 

Right?

 

Anyway. Back to the story in progress…

 

 

Now, my infatuation with Diana’s sister-in-law was supposed to be a completely private fantasy. I’ve had the hots for Julia for years and frankly, I don’t really know why. She’s awfully moody: one minute she’s nice and sweet and fun and a kick to be around; then turn around and she acts like she doesn’t know you – or worse, if you aren’t lucky. Her mood swings seemed to get worse after she had her kids.

 

Julia’s quite attractive, I think, in an interesting sort of way: She’s got strong, bone-sharp facial features, an aristocratic bearing with a long, graceful neck and small, well-formed hands and feet; bluish-green eyes, and a light, Nordic complexion; jaw-length, bobbed straw-blonde hair (that’s currently tinted slightly red – which is another big turn-on for me). She’s shaped a bit like a pear, with a little tiny waist and huge, cannonball size breasts; with wide hips and a big, round, bubble ass – she reminds me of a woman in some Renaissance painting.

 

Her weight fluctuates a lot, up and down with her moods. She’ll work out with a personal trainer, start getting into shape. Then she’ll binge eat and pack on the pounds. Right now she’s on an upswing. She’s stopped wearing her skinny clothes. Now it’s lots of baggy sweaters, and pleated slacks instead of jeans. Lots of black clothes to help hide the weight.

 

On the plus side, her tits are suddenly f’n enormous right now; bigger than usual - like round, ripe cantaloupes, with cherries on top. All during dinner, I couldn’t stop staring. It was a crazy experience. I was horrified I was going to be noticed, get busted; that Diana would catch me peeking, or her brother, or – maybe the worst and most embarrassing scenario of all, that Julia would notice me staring.

 

But I couldn’t stop myself.

 

It was around a solid hour of: Stare at her tits, look away at the waitresses. Think: Oh my God they’re big! Stare at her tits, avoid hubby’s eyes. Think: Look at those f’n nipples! Stare at her tits, eat a soggy French-fry. Think: Lord, don’t let Diana see me looking…

 

And on and on like that.

 

So we’re all talking, gabbing about nothing specific - the usual innocuous family get-together chatter. About halfway through the meal Julia was telling me about this great recipe she had for ribs and how she should email it to me, when around us the subject of the conversation took a turn to summer vacations, and how wouldn’t it be fun for all of us to go on one together, when suddenly Julia turned to her husband and busted out with “You know, I’d like to go to the county fair this year.”

 

My girlfriend made some polite noises, along with everyone else listening in on the conversation, like: yeah, right. Hubby rolled his eyes. Nodded and chuckled, like: The fair. Okay honey. Sure. We’ll think about that.

 

He patted her on the back, said something like: Julia used to be a farm girl. Sometimes she misses the animals. Then he turned and went back to his food.

 

So Julia turned to me, looked me right in the eye, and asked, “What about you Dev? Want to go with me? Apparently my husband won’t.”

 

There was another round of polite chuckles from everyone at the table. Like, Oh, that Julia. What a kidder. What a comedienne. Always joking around. Ha-ha.

I’d have felt that way too. I would’ve laughed and blown off the comment just like everyone else.

 

Except while the waitresses brought out cake and everyone else turned their attention to the birthday girl, Julia kept looking at me. Staring intently. Never took her eyes off mine. Kept my gaze locked for a heartbeat.

 

And two.

 

And three.

 

Raised her eyebrows, like she was throwing down the gauntlet. A challenge, like: How about it Dev? You up for it? I am.

Frankly, I wasn’t sure if I was.

 

In the back of my mind, the common sense part of me, the angel on my shoulder, was screaming, this isn’t what you think it is! She’s not asking you for a date, you idiot! And then another part of me, that stupid devil guy part on my other shoulder, said, But what if she is? Wouldn’t this be the perfect time – it’s so blatant, nobody here would even suspect…

And it went on like that for a while, until finally the angel boiled the whole scenario down to: Why the hell do you want to go to a fair anyway? All those animals, poop and pee stink everywhere… With your allergies, you’ll sneeze your head off. And don’t even talk to me about the Porta-Potties…

***

 

Eventually the evening came to a close. We packed up the leftovers and headed outside to the parking lot and our respective vehicles. The kids ran around, screaming, working off their collective sugar high. Everyone else said their goodbyes.

 

Julia gave me a quick hug; a chaste little pat on the back, while I was trying to hide my sudden boner and still enjoy the feel of her breasts pressed against my chest. I must’ve looked like a pre-teen kid at his first boy-girl dance: bent slightly forward at the waist, the crotch of my jeans stretched out like a tent, my ass backed as far away from her body as I could get it and still allow me to return the hug (Yes, yes. And to feel up the titties as well. Priority number one – always grab the opportunity to feel up the titties).

 

In retrospect, there was no way she couldn’t have noticed my hard-on; I may have well just dry-humped her leg for all the good my contortions were doing. It would’ve still been  as uncomfortable as all hell, but at least I would’ve had a little fun.

 

Into my ear she whispered, “Don’t forget about the fair, okay?”

Then she let me go, glanced down at my crotch, gave me a coy smile, and went to gather her kids.

 

***

 

Now, this is not without precedent. Here’s a little history:

 

A few years ago, we were all at another get-together, a big picnic at a local high-school soccer field on the Fourth of July. We tagged along with several of Julia/Hubby’s friends and neighbors. We ate (barbecue again!) and drank; played Frisbee with the kids; had a good time and generally made merry, passing time until the sun went down and the prerequisite firework show began.

 

The kids got antsy, gallons of soda hitting their nervous systems all at the same time; the sugary liquid running right through them. Julia took her daughter to the bathroom, left with a couple other women and their kids.

 

Diana and I got bored with the festivities, and, feeling antisocial, took a long walk around the field. As the sun was beginning to set, we ran into Julia, stuck about halfway through the Porta-Potty line, along with about a hundred other parents and their about-to-pee-my-pants kids.

 

She and her friends were chatting. Diana pointed and we waved. Julia and her daughter waved back. I smiled. Julia smiled back. We kept on walking. Her friends kept on chatting. We walked on by.

 

Julia kept on looking.

 

I felt eyes on my back, glanced over my shoulder.

 

Julia was still looking. At my ass.

 

And smiling.

 

Later, after the fireworks had ended and we were waiting for the drunken mob in the school parking lot to clear out, I was leaning on the fender of my car, standing around with Diana and Julia’s Hubby.

 

Chatting.

 

Julia standing just off to my left. Close enough to touch.

 

I could hear her breathing.

 

Diana and her brother got bored with the conversation, turned and tossed the Frisbee with the kids.

 

Julia said something to me that I didn’t quite catch, and patted my leg. At least I think she tried to pat my leg, because she missed.

 

She got my crotch instead. But she played it off, casual. Didn’t say a word.

 

Just smiled.

 

Then she got in the car and waited for her family, alone, until they all piled into their Saab and left.

 

I spent the ride home with a happy, warm, tingling hard-on, thinking about how lucky I was that Julia had misjudged her goodbye pat and missed my thigh, and wondering if she’d done it on purpose.

 

*

 

Remembering that Fourth of July got me thinking. Related memories came flooding back, like they do.

 

Every Wednesday was game night at their house. Diana and I tried to go as little as humanly possible, but we got roped in one night. Julia was already a little tipsy by the time we arrived. She had that slightly flushed look to her face when we got there, acting kind of breathless and sweaty and silly around her friends.

 

I really hadn’t wanted to go – Diana had to bribe me into it. Soon as Julia opened the door, my attitude changed. She’d had her second child not long before, but by that time she was in one of her monster work-out modes, had lost most of the weight she’d gained during her pregnancy, and looked fantastic: slim and fit, dressed in a black silk blouse that strained to cover her milk-heavy breasts, a lacy red wrap-around skirt, silk stockings, high heels that I imagined were really uncomfortable, but made her strong, muscular legs almost irresistible.

 

All I wanted to do was run my hands over them. Caress them softly, for hours and hours.

 

After a spirited round of air hockey, in which I fought hard to the end but lost – gracefully, I might add – to Hubby, I spent most of the evening just following Julia around, from room to room. Doing my best to be inconspicuous and failing miserably while I kept glancing her way.

 

I blamed my inability to appear discreet on the beer I kept sipping. Damn beer.

 

It got late. A few couples went home. Eventually everybody left – all the die-hard, alcoholics, er, gamers – ended up in the kitchen, standing at the counter or lounging at the table, drinking and eating chips and salsa. It didn’t take long for the conversation to shift to Julia’s last pregnancy, and Hubby made some drunken, off-hand comment about how “…Julia’s doctor said that she’s so fertile, she can get knocked up at the drop of a hat...”

 

Julia blushed heavily, and got really, really quiet; she stared down at her hands and picked nervously at the paper label on her drink bottle. Hubby never even noticed how badly he’d embarrassed her. He just kept on talking, as if she wasn’t even there. A few minutes later, she stood up and wandered off. Feeling natures call after all the beer I’d swigged, I excused myself and went looking for the restroom.

 

Hubby was making lots of money now, and their house was big and new, and I had only been there maybe once or twice. The only bathroom I knew of was upstairs, down the hall next to the master bedroom.

 

The muffled sound of drunken laughter followed me up, while my over-full bladder was desperately trying to send me warning signs. I found the bathroom, heard a noise from beyond the partially open door at the end of the hall.

 

Someone was crying, but trying hard to keep it under control.

 

I already knew who it was, but I crept closer, and peeked; carefully peered into the room. I couldn’t help myself. I’m a sucker for a crying woman.

 

Saw Julia, sitting on the edge of her bed, weeping. I must not have been as sneaky as I thought I was, because she stood abruptly and viciously wiped tears away from her swollen, red-rimmed eyes; smoothed her skirt down over her hips.

 

We stood there for what seemed like ages. Not moving. Not speaking. We just stood, staring at each other.

 

And then Julia did the strangest thing.

 

She reached up and unbuttoned her blouse. Slowly and carefully undid each tiny pearl button. Slipped the blouse off and let it fall to the carpet. Kept her eyes locked on mine the entire time.

 

Then she untied her skirt, and let it fall away. It whispered down her legs, pooled at her feet.

 

Time froze. I held my breath. Heard the pounding of my heart in my chest; heard the low roar of the blood burning in my ears.

 

She bent over and slipped off her shoes, her face still tilted upwards, eyes on mine. Her creamy-white breasts jiggled slightly, trapped in the cotton cups of her nursing bra. A small cross on a delicate silver necklace dangled, caught deep in the cleft between her breasts. She stood up slowly, ran her hands up her thighs to the waistband of her white, satin slip. Turned until her back was to me and pushed the clinging material down over her hips; bent again and pushed until the slip pooled on the floor with her skirt.

 

My tongue felt swollen and thick, stuck to the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t breathe. My entire world had narrowed to this; my view of Julia, very slowly and surely taking off her clothes in front of me.

 

She straightened and turned to me again, her hands loose at her sides. She brushed the last of her tears from her cheeks, shook her hair back. That image of her, with her tear-streaked face, clothed only in her bra, panties, and stockings, burned deep into my mind.

 

Julia raised her arms, cupped her breasts, and stepped towards me. Then she reached out, and quietly shut the door.

 

I licked my dry lips.

 

A few moments later my head started to clear, and I managed to stagger into the bathroom.

 

*

 

Fast forward a few years. Julia was getting ready to throw a surprise party for her Hubby, planning the bash with Diana and her mom, who was now living with us. Actually, she was splitting time between babysitting for Julia and Hubby at their place, and annoying the hell out of me the rest of the time. It was summer, and Julia had cut her beautiful hair, shaved it close and spiky; prompting her little boy to say she was the ugliest mom in the world.

 

Made her cry, the little shit.

 

Honestly, it did take a little getting used to, but after a while I kind of liked the cut. It showed off the slope of Julia’s neck. She and Hubby had taken up cycling, and they’d just come back from their anniversary, a two-week long trip to Maui. She was tanned a deep, even nut-brown, and was as sexy as I’d ever seen her. She’d taken to wearing tight khaki shorts and open blouses over low-cut t-shirts.

 

Amazing.

 

So the day of the big surprise, I get stuck holding Hubby’s birthday present. It had been hidden at our house so he wouldn’t stumble across it, and I had to take it to work with me for Julia to pick up.

 

I’m a partner in a small film production company. My other partners are friends of mine, Dave and Swan. It was lunch time when she showed up, and I was the only person still in the office. I met her in our tiny lobby. We said hi, made small talk. She was in her shorts and t-shirt mode, and I was once again having trouble keeping my attention from drifting down to her cleavage.

 

I had a song running through my head the entire time she was there, something along the lines of: Julia has great big boobies; big, big boobies… I want to suck her boobies, and squeeze her bootie too…

It went on and on like that, until she left. The building was quiet, and I got to work, poking around in my office, quietly singing my new favorite song about Julia’s boobs and bootie to myself. I had my back turned to the door, obliviously dinking around on my computer, so intent on what I was doing that I never noticed her come back into the shop, or prop herself against the doorframe and listen to me singing, happily embellishing my dirty little ditty.

 

Feeding me rope.

 

After a bit she cleared her throat and yanked the invisible rope tight. I jumped, about had a heart attack. She made a face. Tilted her head and smirked at me. Embarrassment came fast. I felt the blood rush to my face, felt my cheeks burn.

 

She pointed at the gaily wrapped package on the shelf above my desk.

 

“I forgot the present,” she said.

 

“Oh.” I nodded, playing it smooth. “Right. Can’t forget that.”

 

I grabbed the box, handed it to her. Our fingers brushed when she took it. A ragged jolt of electricity ran through me, leaving my fingertips tingling when it passed.

 

Julia shook the box slightly, grinned. Then she turned and left. The air rushed out of me and I collapsed weakly in my leather chair.

 

I almost wished I’d had the heart attack.

 

Instead, I called my partner, Swan. Told him all about planting my foot firmly in my mouth.

 

First thing out of his was, “Dude, you fuck her?”

 

“What? No!”

 

“Should’a, man. Should’a bent her over right there on your desk.”

 

Typical. My friends.

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering if I could somehow weasel out of attending the party.

 

Turned out I couldn’t. Not without culling a shitload of bad mojo between me and Diana. So I took one for the team and sweated it out; my paranoia reading volumes into every little glance Julia tossed my way, wondering what the innuendo of each, casual comment she made held.

 

It was a long night.

 

At the end, I got another chaste, goodnight hug and another tiny smile from Julia, and spent a long ride back to the house with Diana. Her mom stayed the weekend at Julia’s, so she and Hubby could go up to their mountain hideaway to celebrate his birthday privately. Julia was supposed to drive Mom – Marleen - back to our place on Monday.

 

I was so relieved to finally get out of their house that little detail completely slipped from my mind.

 

*

 

So Monday rolled around like a bad bout of stomach flu. Fortunately, it was my day off. Swan was at the office instead, editing raw film stock for a project we were working on. Diana was gone at work and I was home alone, sitting at the dining room table with my pants down around my ankles, nasty porn on the laptop, merrily jacking off to beat the band, so to speak.

 

Getting to the good part, if you know what I mean. Heh.

 

Then somebody opened the back door and walked noisily into the kitchen. I heard two voices, muffled under the loud, phony moans of cocaine induced passion emitting from my laptops’ speakers.

 

I realized that I knew both the new voices. I froze with my hand on the goods, with lingerie covered tits and ass on the screen, scrubby, heroin-addict looking guys with big fat dicks giving what-for to tiny little women with fake tits. Then I heard footsteps, coming my way.

 

I slammed the laptop shut and jumped to my feet – as best I could with my pants down, anyway – wondering wildly if I could just disappear, or, failing that, if maybe I could crawl under the table and hide.

 

Totally stupid idea.

 

Even in my crazed state, my rational mind knew our little table was way too small to make a decent hiding place for a midget, much less for my six-foot, two hundred pound, partially-clothed bod. We didn’t even have a tablecloth. My hairy ass would stick right out.

 

Instead, I shuffled as fast as I could behind a chair, vainly trying to jerk my pants up with one hand, while using the other to try and cover my rapidly dwindling erection. My jeans, which up to that point in time had given me long years of faded, broken-in, ripped-crotch comfort decided they hated me and stuck down around my knees.

 

I made it behind the chair and pressed my dick against the back of the thin wood frame, just as Marleen came rushing into the dining room.

 

I froze, praying to a blindly merciful God (not the fire-and-brimstone God of the Old Testament. No. I was praying to a kinder and gentler God, the Heavenly Being who finds endless amusement in torturing mere mortals by setting up these types of practical jokes). Prayed that if I didn’t move and didn’t breathe, I could somehow blend right into the wallpaper.

 

Maybe my prayers worked. Marleen scooted right past without even glancing my way, just waved her hand in my general direction and mumbled something about having to pee like a racehorse.

 

I blinked in surprise; let my breath out in a whoosh. Let my guard down.

 

Said a quiet thank you to the Almighty.

 

He, however, is nothing if not a Mighty Jokester, as you probably already realize.

 

Just as I slumped over in relief, Julia walked into the room, looking grumpy and distracted, mouth open, ready to continue her conversation with Marleen.

 

Then she noticed me: my pants still nowhere up around where they should be, still clinging to my knees. She blinked and shook her head, like she was seeing things. Like crazy, drunken half-naked man had just materialized in my dining room.

 

I grinned. Gave her a feeble wave. “Hi, Jule,” I said.

 

She blinked again. Then a big, surprised smile spread across her face.

 

“Well, hi, Dev.”

 

Beat.

 

She was staring, her gaze leveled just below my navel. I couldn’t blame her. I’d probably be staring at the crazy, half-naked man too. If I wasn’t the crazy, half-naked man.

 

I could hear the silent laughter of the Almighty, ringing in my head.

 

Julia licked her lips, looked at the computer. Back at me. Put two and two together. Raised a pretty eyebrow.

 

“Not expecting company?”

 

“Ah…well, no. Not really.”

 

She moved a little to her right. Got a better view. I grabbed my crotch with both hands and shuffled towards the back of the table.

 

“I see.” Yes, she did. The whole f’n world probably could.

 

I got a good grip on my pants and tried to wiggle them up, but just to add fuel to the fire, my cock decided to spring anew, as it were. Popped right up, poking straight out at Julia. I couldn’t pull the damn jeans over the thing.

 

“Wow. That’s pretty impressive.”

 

I laughed weakly.

 

Julia’s look of curiosity changed. She took a step closer, ran the tip of a finger along the edge of my table. I swear I could feel her fingernail on my flesh. My cock twitched, got even bigger. I shuffled backwards, an inch at a time, but she caught me. Stopped, barely an inch away from me.

 

I froze again, trying to hold up my pants and hide my stuff at the same time.

 

She was breathing lightly, easily. She slowly, gently put both of her hands on my chest. They felt like they were on fire, like they would burn through my t-shirt. I watched the moist, pink tip of her tongue flick out and lick her lips. It seemed like it was moving in slow motion. Her hands moved lower, towards my belly. Her perfect eyes fluttered closed. She pursed her lips, leaned in…

 

Down the hall, the toilet flushed. The bathroom door banged open. Marleen stomped out, grumbling something about there never being enough toilet paper in the house.

 

Julia’s eyes snapped open, and she shoved me into the living room. Turned on her heel and faced the hallway, crossed her arms under her breasts. I scrambled and hid behind the wall as Marleen stalked back into the dining room.

 

“Finished?” Julia, acting impatient, tapping her foot, improvising. “We need to get the rest of your stuff from the car. I’ve got to go.”

 

“Right, right.” Marleen. “Okay.”

 

I heard Marleen bustle back into the kitchen. Julia popped her head into the living room as I was buttoning up my fly.

 

She shot me a wicked grin, then disappeared.

 

I crashed back against the wall, exhausted. I could still hear somebody laughing, the sound of it ringing in my ears.

 

*

 

So there’s the history. Most of it, anyway. There’s more, like the time Julia got really interested in purchasing art, and since I had an art background of sorts, she invited me along to go to some kind of an art festival with her. The festival was a yearly thing, held out of town. Far enough away that we would’ve been gone a day or two. She was going to rent a hotel room for us. A single room, to ‘save money’.

 

Everyone seemed okay with the idea, except for me. Granted, Julia made a point to mention that the room had double beds. But – call me crazy, here – how many young, newly-wed women invite their sister-in-law’s boyfriend on a weekend long trip, and shack up with him, alone, in a hotel room?

 

The art phase blew over pretty quickly, and we never did go to the festival. Not long after, Julia found out she was pregnant. Hubby passed out during the first ultrasound, and didn’t fare much better during the Lamaze classes.

 

She asked if I would be her coach.

 

After the shock wore off, I actually went to one class with her before she was finally able to convince Hubby to join her. It was probably the strangest, most surreal thing I’ve ever done, letting her lean up against me, holding her while we practiced breathing together. I needed to travel to California for business when Julia had the actual delivery, but Diana was there, encouraging Julia to breathe and trying to keep her brother from fainting dead away before his daughter was born.

 

Later, she told me that during one of the contractions she saw Julia poop; one little, golden nugget that shot out of her butt, right before the first part of her daughters head oozed into view.

 

You can’t imagine how glad I was that I missed that.

 

Then there was the time about a year ago, when I found out that Prince (you know: The Artist Formerly Known As, who Now Was Again…) was coming to town to play two shows. Last time to hear the old hits live!

 

I freaked out. I was a Prince fan from wa-ay back. How could I miss seeing him screech out Little Red Corvette one last time? I was with Diana, in her car, reading one of the free, hip local papers, and asked her to go.

 

She laughed. Basically said forget it. But hey, she said, Julia loves Prince. Why don’t you ask her to go? (This was before the whole suspected affair confrontation, obviously – )

 

“You’re kidding.” I said.

 

“No, really.”

 

So I said okay, grabbed my cell phone and called. Hubby answered. I asked Hubby if it was okay if I asked his wife out on a date, and he laughed and said sure, and he handed the phone to Julia, and I told her what was up and asked her if she wanted to go with me, and then she freaked out, and then she said sure, and I said that I’d buy the tickets in the next day or so, and she started planning out the whole night…

 

I called about seating the next day, and found out that the tickets were some God-awful, astronomical amount, even for the cheap seats. Expensive, like it would cost me about three hundred bucks for the two of us to go, even with crappy seats.

 

Probably about typical for arena shows nowadays, but man! Three hundred bucks! And I wasn’t expecting to get anything after the show, like a real date. Not even a kiss. I figured that if I really wanted to hear Little Red Corvette, I could just pop on the CD for free.

 

Julia seemed really bummed when I called her back a week later and let her know both of the shows had sold out.

 

***

 

So.

 

Now it’s springtime. The skies are turning blue, the birds are chirping, flowers are blooming; it’s the time of year when a man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love, and all that.

 

My allergies are making me sneeze something fierce. Business is good: Swan and I are shooting a new series of television commercials. My writers block is just – seems to be, anyway – a fading memory. I found my missing notebook stuffed in our junk drawer. Now the novel is slowly moving along. Maybe it’ll eventually see the light of day.

 

Yesterday I got an email from Julia. I haven’t heard from her in a while. Not since the fallout between me and Diana over the anonymous sexy emails. She finally sent me her famed barbecue recipe (the barbecue connection again!). I’d forgotten all about it.

 

Sounded good, so I tried it out and spent all day cooking. After seven hours with ribs broiling in the oven, the house smelled delicious.

 

Now I’m sitting here, munching on some truly dy-no-mite barbecue, listening to my iPod while I write this, thinking about all the stuff I’ve mentioned (I swear my iPod can read my mind. These are the last four songs it played, in order: We Got A Date, by 24-7 Spyz; So In Love, by Curtis Mayfield; Fishbone’s Bonin’ In The Boneyard; and Just Cuz She Was Nice, by Weapon of Choice – The four stages of a relationship: the first kiss, the first bloom of love, the first sex, the eventual nasty breakup).

 

To the point of all this: Along with the recipe, she sent a reminder that the Fair was going to open on Friday, and she wanted to know if we were still going. She’d drive us down, and we could make a full day of it then come back late; or we could just crash at a cheap hotel for the night and drive back home the next afternoon.

 

Let me know soon, she wrote.

 

So. Okay. I’ve read this email several times now. Haven’t replied yet, mainly because I’ve been reading it over and over.

 

Wondering.

 

Here’s what I’ve been thinking: For the most part, I can separate fantasy from reality. All shit aside, I’m a normal, rational guy, intelligent enough to know that thinking with my dick makes me read things into situations like these – things that I interpret as sexual innuendo – when really nothing of the kind is going on.

 

I casually mentioned the email to Diana, and she’s been teasing me about it ever since. But I think she’s cool with it. We’ve spent a lot of time these last months trying to repair our relationship. I think she trusts me again, at least a little. I hope so. I like her a lot, and I don’t want to screw things up again.

 

And then there’s Julia’s marriage. They’ve got their share of problems, to be sure, but I know that Julia’s husband loves her, and I think she loves him too.

 

But…there’s all this stuff….

 

I’m in a quandary; on the horns of a dilemma. I can’t decide whether or not to go. I know what my motivation for going with her is, but I’m just not sure about Julia’s reasons for asking me.

 

So, dear reader, knowing what you do of my relationship woes, I’ll leave it to a vote.

 

Do I go? If I do, will there be more to this little drama? How will my day at the fair turn out? Will I finally get to knock boots with Julia? Am I just a testosterone driven idiot to even consider it?

 

Let me know what you think, and I’ll let you know how everything turns out…

 

 

 

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