Just Off Center

I have so much work to do that I can’t even decide where to start. So I’ll just ignore it all and start blogging.

I can’t stop eating. I’m serious. It doesn’t matter what I put down, I’m hungry again in a couple hours. And it’s not this little “sure I could eat” twinge of empty tummy thing going on. I mean I’ll be walking around and it’ll hit me like a Mac truck. I absolutely, positively MUST eat… NOW!!! This past weekend for the first time in as long as I can remember, Nina and I ordered pizza delivery. And about two hours later I met a sixteen-year-old kid with my precious large meat lover’s pizza for a paltry seventeen bucks. I know I ate more than half of it. I was full. I always get full. But two hours later I was on my way to the fridge ready to eat a pickle, yogurt, tomatoes, and lunchmeat with that not-so-yummy getting old glaze. Nina says it’s a good thing, that my metabolism is in high gear. But this is getting pricey. I’m going out to eat three times a day some days. I try to eat on the cheap though to minimize our losses.

Speaking of being sixteen, I remember when I was sixteen in high school we had a guest visitor who came by to tell us about our upcoming Junior retreat. For those of you in public schools, Catholic school retreats are where the entire class goes away fro the school, reads a few inspirational texts, and everybody hugs and cries listening to “Friends” by John Michael Montgomery. But this particular one was different, they sent us to the fucking ghetto downtown so that we could see how the unfortunate half lives. Truly depressing, especially when you consider that somehow, my having lived in a suburb outside Indianapolis qualified me to talk about the mean streets in Evansville.

Speaking of Evansville, I can’t WAIT to go home for Thanksgiving and see my mommy! I don’t get enough opportunities to hang out with my ma. Every time I talk to her, she has three questions for me. One, when are you moving closer to me? Two, are you in school? And three, why do you hate me so much that you live so far away? Very annoying. However, as time goes by I find that I want to spend more and more of my time hanging with mom. She’s the bestest. And not only that, when my mom told my brother and sister that I was going to be in town they volunteered to change their plans and come visit too. Mom swears that she didn’t pressure it. I don’t believe it. My sibs actually want to see me.

Speaking of people I didn’t think wanted to be anywhere near me, I got the strangest email the other week. It was a response to a letter I had sent to my first high school girlfriend three years ago. You see, three years ago, I was in that whole “go back to your roots” phase. Life was pretty awesome, so I figured now’s the time. I sent a letter to Shannon, my first real girlfriend, first love, first sex, first lots of things. I told her about my life and asked about hers, etcetera. She wrote back two weeks ago. And we’ve sent several friendly emails back and forth. How about that? There’s a woman out there with whom I had a relationship who doesn’t dream of seeing me grilled on a spit with my cock in my mouth. I took the requisite time to explain to Nina that it was purely catching up and friendly. As it turns out, Shannon is a lawyer, has a ten-year-old son, is a racerunner in the Indianapolis area, never married, and was recently a Coors Light girl. She sent me a pic of that. Nina… didn’t think that was very appropriate.

Speaking of fighting, Nina and I have been doing much better lately. I hate to admit that I allowed a self-help/relationship book guide my behavior toward my wife, but I think that it’s helped. I’ve just decided to not get all butt-hurt every time she gets a headache or decides to snap at me or nag me for some shit and just try to take it all in stride. I find that I just take a few deep breaths and let the hurt subside. Then I can process what she’s saying and try to adjust my actions to better suit my intentions. Yeah, it’s boring to read about.

Speaking of relationship books, I was walking around a mall bookstore the other week, looking at the relationship section. Apart from the books that are geared toward helping couples resolve their differences, which are few and far between, there appear to be only two kinds of books there: “Why men are lying, cheating, backstabbing, horrible, putric, rancid, awful, disgusting, overbearing assholes and how to avoid them” by Dr. Joanne Dustysnatch, and “How to get your wife to suck your cock fifteen times per week” by Dr. Ken E. Lingus. That’s it. You can either read endless bitching about men, or read another illustrated tome on the best way to hit that g-spot so she’ll let you give her a facial. Now that I think of it… I might want to thumb through a couple of those. Facials fucking rock out!

Father God, sonny Jesus. I just got a call from Joe, Sam's trusting, kind, benevolant, and extremely worried father. Joe wanted to tell me that he hadn't heard fro Sam in over two weeks. So? No big shock there. If he has a responsibility as heavy as making a phone call to his parents to let them know he's still alive, he stands a one in fifty shot of success.

So why is Joe suddenly so worried? Sam once went months and months on end making absolutely no contact with anyone in his twenties holed up in his apartmetn drunk and passed out. Well Joe managed to contact Sam's employer. Sidenote... I can't stand the effort to hold the shift key down for this asshat. From now on he's just sam. Anyway, sam's boss said that sam had called in over a week ago claiming that his tools had been stolen. What did the boss do? He offered him a loan of some of his personal tools while sam worked. sam's response was that he was too upset to come to work. And that is the last time he showed up to work.

Rock bottom? God I fucking hope so.

So now Joe is absolutely apeshit. He begged me to please please please go to anyplace that I thinkg sam might be. All I could think of was the motel he crashed at for over a week when I kicked him out the first time. I drove twenty miles to the motel and spoke with the owner. No car, no registration, no recognition of my description. Oh well. I called Joe back and told him this, and assured him that it is far more likely that he's just found someone else to mooch off of and that he's probably at some other cheap joint sucking back rotgut whiskey and drowning in his own misery.

Joe still sounded terrible. He was checking airfare for a flight out here... tomorrow! He wants to come out here, track sam down like some bloodhound, throw him in the back of the van and drive him back to Evansville. The very thought of this pisses me off for so many reasons. First, sam's fine. He's drunk and wallowing in self-pity. But he's fine. Second, sam doesn't have it in him to kill himself. He just doesn't. Don't ask me why. There's too much whiskey to drink, ad maybe a friedn or two that he hasn't fucked over left. And third, even if sam found was sober enough to figure out how to tie the noose, he would have been discovered by now.

I hope Joe finds him before I do, because I'm gonna give him a fucking High Ten enema.

*UPDATE*

Joe called the police who found him at some motel nearby the other one he had stayed at. He was piss drunk of course. Joe has decided to drive out, pick Sam up, and drive him home to force him into recovery in his home. Yeah... that should work out just fine. Good call, Joe! Whatever, he's out of my life. All except the random curly Sam hair that I find on horizontal surfaces all over the house.

Last night, in a somewhat altered state of mind, Nina and I got a call from an old friend. Because of the nature of the story I’ll just call him... Agamemnon. Aggie was a really good friend of our in our younger and more careless days. Nina has written about him before citing his real name. You can see where this is going.

Anyway, after making idle chitchat for a minute or two, he dove into the reason for his call. Apparantly, one of his aunts or someone had decided to do some googling of his name, and just happened upon Nina’s blog, wherein she described our buddy in all his flawed splendor. I’m pretty sure there were mentions of sex, drugs, and rock & roll.

Aggie has since… amended his ways. The truth is, most of the times that I’ve spoken to him lately, he’s made quite a fuss about convincing me that he’s a changed man. He tells me looks back on those days in our late teens and early twenties as his “selfish years”. In truth, I wish he’d stop saying that. He was my best friend for a period of time, and the thought that he’s forsaking all of those days so that he can walk around like some Promisekeeper at the pulpit is disconcerting. I hate that. I’m ten years wiser and smarter. I have a good job, a house, two cars, three cats, a skill, and a degree. But I’m still just Mike. I’m still basically the same guy I used to be. He seems to want to separate himself from that persona altogether.

He’s married now, and he has a kid. It’s such a cool little scene, and I like his wife too. And their daughter is so sweet. They’re all coming out next month and we’re going to kick back and spend some time together. I’m really looking forward to it. As much as I want to get to know him as he is today, I still want to see how different he is. Is he really so completely turned around? If so, I don’t mind saying that that really sucks. Selfish, irresponsible and horny. Sounds like every boy you knew at age twenty doesn’t it? So where’s the impetus for change, or rather such a drastic change? Is it his shame over his behavior, which he shouldn’t be feeling? Is it his wife who wants him to be more of a “real man” in his newfound adulthood? If so… well you can’t really do much when that happens but mourn your lost friend. It can’t be his daughter because he was saying these things well before her birth.

Anyway, back to the story. So his aunt told his mom, who read Nina’s posts and called him to ask about it. I was astounded. I thought, “oh shit, I can’t even remember what she wrote!” I passed the phone off to Nina, who apologized for the inconvenience and promised to remove the posts with mention of him. It’s actually a shame because those were two of the funniest, most memorable posts she’s ever written.

I can understand not wanting to be described as a drug user or a pervert on a public website. My interest is in the strict adherence to the idea that “That is who we were, not who we are”. What the fuck is the big deal about turning new leaves, and being all growed up. Is there some prize for the man who refuses his base desires and fronts as a man in control and laden with great responsibility? When he comes over, I want him to grab my last beer. I want him to finish off last night’s leftovers. I’m hoping he’ll run too fast in the house and break something. I just want him to show me that he’s not that guy who went and changed so much that we no longer have anything in common.

It’s been a while since I’ve written about how things are going between Nina and me. I usually just don’t want her getting offended if she sees some opinion or statement that I’ve written that I didn’t tell her about before publication. It’s sort of a “how come you can tell them, but not me” sort of thing. Anyway, today I’m in a good mood and feeling saucy, so I have no ill intent.

Nina and I took a nosedive a little while back. It was worse than she realized. The reason for that is I tend to keep my thoughts and feelings about us bottled up. I’ve never really had anyone I could confide in about how our relationship was going. I’ve always just tried to figure out the right thing to do on my own. So, when I’m feeling unloved or unwanted, I just keep it inside and analyze the situation until I come up with what I believe to be the right course of action. Things are better between us now. I’m convinced that most of our problems are rooted in communication. And I’ve determined to be a better, more communicative husband.

Well one of the things that has bothered me about our marriage is the lack of sex. I should actually say the lack of enough sex to satisfy Nina’s insatiable, perverted freak of a husband. If I had my druthers, I’d fuck my wife first thing in the morning, maybe again just before she left for work. I’d pop her as soon as we got home, push her down for a blowjob after dinner, get rough and nasty an hour later, and finally tie her up and make her scream until she passes out in bed... or on whatever horizontal surface I placed her on.

Nina’s talked about being vanilla several times. I think she feels this way because I’m such a freak. The other night I was making fun of her telling her that she doesn’t realize what she’s got here. Right here is a man who will do absolutely anything… Anything… her little heart desires. I can recharge in minutes, keep fucking well after getting off, and I love nothing more than taking charge and making her cum until she begs me to stop. Compared to me, Nina is vanilla. But she’s probably no different than most women in this regard.

Well last night, Nina had a bad experience with me, and I’m not really sure how to handle it. We have been flirting over emails as one of the ways that I’m trying to be a better husband and communicate. So every day I can say that we both get each other hot before we even see each other. I like that. Unfortunately, for the past several days there have been things preventing us from getting it on. That’s alright though. More than anything else, I just want to feel lusted after and wanted. A close second is the desire to dominate in the bedroom. But that’s another story.

Oh, right, the bad experience. Well, this may seem like a routine thing to married couples who have fucked each other a couple thousand times. For others, this might seem pathetic. So I’m in bed with Nina and I know that we aren’t going to have sex. Nina’s not feeling well. That’s okay I guess. So I start thinking that I might as well just jerk off and go to sleep… you know… because I can’t sleep until I get off. Duh. So as I start playing around in bed and Nina is telling me all about her day it occurs to me that this would feel so much better if Nina was doing the jerking for me. Plus, I bet she feels a little guilty about not giving it up in recent days when she had intentions to. Now is a damn fine time to make a request for a handjob. And so I do.

Her response was that she didn’t want to but that she would. Well of course you don’t want to. If you wanted to, you’d already have been on me. So I wait for a minute or two and then she asks if that’s what I want. Well of course it is. So she rolls over, grabs me, and starts getting busy. And damn was it feeling good. The only problem was that when she’d be getting me close she’d suddenly slow down or release some of her grip, which would make me lose the whole sensation. She’s done this before, mostly as a tease, not letting me cum until she was ready for me to. So I asked if she was teasing me. But she said her arm was getting tired.

That was when I knew that it probably wasn’t going to work out. I was at least two minutes of steady jerking away, and she was getting tired and slowing down after thirty seconds of effort at a time. So I suggested, jokingly but kind of serious, that she might have to resort to using “something else” to get the job done. She chuckled and instead suggested that I hurry up and cum already. To this I replied “I’m trying”.

“You have to try?”

Shit… not good. But it’s the truth. Anyway, I think she decided that she was just going to get it done and get it done fast and hard. Her pride was on the line. So she started torquing down and cranking fast. This didn’t help me get off. In fact it only hurt. So I stopped her, took her hand off of me and told her that it was okay, no big deal. I think it was a big deal to her. But it really wasn’t. I didn’t see it as a failure on her part. She has given me handjobs in the past that I have preferred over most of the sex we’ve had. She’s awesome at the handjob. I just figured she was out of practice, or not feeling well, or just had an off night. No big deal, really.

I knew she felt bad, so I didn’t bother with finishing myself off. I just rolled over, tried to tell her it was okay. But she was already very upset. I would have snuggled up to her and tried to console her, but instead I just passed out. Kung fu class really knocked me on my ass last night.

So this morning I’m gassing up my car and my cell phone rings. At 5:30 in the morning, only Nina could be calling me. She wanted to make sure everything was okay between us. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t mad and that she was making a big deal out of nothing. I really need her to feel okay about this. Because if she thinks she can no longer give a decent handjob, she’s not going to even try for a fucking year. And she’ll never forget. The next time she does, it’ll be the only thing in her mind, I know it. And when it’s over she’ll ask “better than last time?” God. Still, she seemed upset on the phone, like I had made her feel bad or something. I guess I can sort of understand that. But it’s just not true. Damn, this didn’t need to be a “thing”.

I’m not sure where I was going with this. I guess the point is that I don’t want this little incident to make her think that I think she’s a bad lover. And I definitely don’t want her to hesitate to try again. If it was me, I’d be all over her, trying to get it right, trying to find what works. But girls seem to be more timid about these things. I suppose in the end you can always just lay back and get fucked. That’s always good enough for us dumb ol’ boys.

As the title suggests, we have a bomber in our midst. His identity is unknown. He is only known to be male, college educated, and stuffed with high density fiber. He is the Stall Bomber, and his terror is known throughout my building.

It all started a couple of months ago. I was fresh on the scene at this newly assigned company for whom I would be implementing our very expensive services. I didn’t want to rock any boats. It was important to be liked. However, at about one in the afternoon, I would feel the undeniable rumblings that were the precursor to an after lunch mud butting. In the building where I work, there is only one bathroom to be shared among approximately 150 men. There are five stalls, including the handicapped ones. But we don’t have any wheelies working here, so fuck it.

When I walked in I tried to spy an open stall. All were taken but the one on the far end. I detest making boo boo in the presence of others. However, the two-minute warning had sounded about ninety seconds ago. I approached the open stall only to find that it been desecrated by what I can only assume to be a man with an eighteen-inch circumference asshole.

The entire bowl was covered in shit. And I don’t mean little streaks that come with a machaca burrito. Nor am I referring to the little bits of onionskin and other tidbits that resemble intestinal lining in the water. I mean the entire motherfucking toilet bowl was covered with thick, nasty, stinking layers of fecal matter. Try to stick with me here. I know it’s disgusting. But the sheer magnitude of the desecration is so astounding that it warrants forced desensitization, like my wife watching The First 48 (aka. Detectives Fumbling and Oh Look a Sucking Chest Wound).

I was faced with a situation that I didn’t create. I couldn’t hold back the hoards of used steak and green beans any longer, corporate policy prevented me from using the sink, and I knew that if I added to the porcelain spackle already in place, as soon as I left one of the engineers would see inside and I would forever be known as the contractor who removed the lid, did the splits on the partition walls, spread his cheeks, and blasted out a wave of crap that would have toppled your will to live. But since shitting my pants in indecision wasn’t an option I could accept, I chose to use the desecrated stall and just cover my head with my shirt the whole time I was running out.

I was lucky in that nobody saw me leave that stall. But the next day when nature called, I was met again by another fine example of why we don’t eat sawdust for breakfast. The Van Gogh of poopy was a regular visitor to this stall, this particular stall. I didn’t have to go that bad, so I pinched my colon as only men can and walked away wondering how the hell a man can see these results and never once question his doctor… or at least suggest a different diet to his wife.

It seems that I am not alone in wondering who this man is and what he could possibly be eating. You know, I don’t want to drone on about this, but I swear the whole bowl, the whole fucking bowl… every fucking time! I would think that you’d have to strategically position your asshole in several key spots over the toilet and let loose with a “Fire aft torpedoes!” to achieve these results. Okay… so this morning I come in and go to the john to take my morning dump and I see that the stall that normally is reserved for the Prince of Poo now has a sign on it.

Dear Stall Bomber

We would just like to let you know of a new

Bathroom technique we like to call

THE COURTESY FLUSH!!!

It’s cheap, easy, and a great way to

Help your coworkers not hork and shit

At the same time.

Thanks for your consideration.

Everyone.

But no sooner did my hope for the future rise it was dashed back to the tile floor when after lunch yet again I encountered the leftovers of Rhino Ass two stalls over from the one he used to use. Slippery bastard. I’m beginning to rethink my ideas on Big Brother. I would be willing to let someone in security see my winky while I’m going potty if it means identifying this cretin. And when we do find out who he is, I don’t know whether we should give him a swirly in his own excrement, or offer him a guest shot in some talent show.