Boisterous Volvo

Elmer ran down the street and screamed at the top of his lungs. The neighbors on Chestnut Street rushed out from their houses to see what the fuss was all about.

Mrs. Winkelputzer shouted out a question from her rocking chair. "What in the name of Jehosephat is Elmer Butterfield carrying on about?"

Mrs. Hemphood scratched his forehead and muttered, "Ain't been the same since his mama done died. Why can't that snarly uncle come on down from Toledo and Elmer away?"

Miss Pringelmeyer let her blonde curls dangle from her hair net. Maybe now Elmer would notice her, all pretty in her Pepto-Bismol pink and golden hair. Especially since Elemer wasn't wearing anything except his dead sister Mabel's ballerina tutu.

"Help!" he said. "That old car is chasing me down the street. Mama's come back from the grave and she's possessed the old Volvo and she's chasing me, just like she always used to do with that ruler."

Mr. Hemphood looked down the corner at the old Butterfield place. The Volvo hardly sported a new life -- it sat dead in the gravel, no boisterous runaway like Elmer screamed about.

"Vehicle outlives vehicle owner!" Elmer repeated the refrain, over and over. "Beware the boisterous Volvo! Vehicle outlives vehicle owner!"

"What the devil do you mean?" Mrs. Winkelputzer asked from her porch.

"Miss Pringelmeyer ran up to her. "He's such a sweet soul, we got to do something for him."

Elmer pranced up to them. "Volvo. It means 'vehicle outlives vehicle owner.' That's what Mama always said. And now it's chasing me down the street. Got to run for help!"

They all looked down the street, fifteen years old, a car with no tires on cinder blocks. But Elmer kept pointing down the street.

"See? It's jumped off the blocks! I'm getting out of here before the Mama car runs me down!"

Off he went. They heard him yelling his refrain down Chestnut Street. He turned the corner onto Main Street. A bus flattened him dead.

"Volvo," Mrs. Winkelputzer cried, "Vehicle outlives second owner, too."

What I know about writing

I walked into my parents’ house Friday evening after the day’s long drive to Hilton Head. Mom had promised me roasted chicken for dinner when I arrived and boy, was I ever hungry!

But when I walked in and called out, “Mom, Dad, I’m here!” I didn’t smell garlic, rosemary, and olive oil, just the scents of the cleaning lady having done her job that day.

Mom and Dad, Gary and Jody, Jeff and Claudia sat in the living room. Jeff approached first.

“Jim,” he said, two deep vertical lines between his eyebrows, “we have to talk to you about this writing nonsense.”

Mom stood up and wagged her index finger at me. “This has got to stop, Jim. You can’t be writing about us and sharing it with those San Francisco liberals. Have you no shame?”
Dad spoke up, shaking his head left to right. “What are you trying to accomplish? Are you trying to drive a wedge in this family, break this family apart by telling stories about us?”

Mom went back to her vodka on ice and sat down. “You’ve exaggerated every one of our Jimmy stories, sometimes beyond recognition.”

Claudia, always a voice of reason, asked, “Couldn’t you just have changed all the names and tweaked the stories a little more?”

Gary added his consensus-building voice to the fray. “What I’m hearing today is a lot of anger, Jim, and I think it’d be best if you just cooled it for a while.”

The barrage continued. Only Jody didn’t speak up.

“You told the whole world about some of our inner feelings, some of our anxieties. How dare you tell the world all our secrets!”

“And you misquoted me on a number of occasions. I don’t like it.”

“Your little stories always came from your own, selfish point of view. Never one of ours!”

“And then you made up different characters and shifted things around just to suit your purposes.”

“This has to stop, I repeat: this has to stop. We’re doing an intervention here, Jim. Seems to me, if you’re going to write about what you know, you can’t ever write again. So put that poison pen down …”

I loved my family, but I wouldn’t give up my pen. Maybe I just needed to go back to the masquerade that fiction is completely … fictional. Maybe no one would complain then. I couldn’t wait for the next Round Robin session to start.

Man on the river

I loved going to the provincial, mundane ranch house of my father-in-law Ron. He lived on the St. John’s River and had a breathtaking view of Jacksonville’s modest skyline. Our dogs jumped up and down whenever we approached his house – they loved the football-sized backyard. So did the kids. Ron had a treehouse he built for his pet pheasant. But the pheasant got eaten up by an alligator, so now it was for Michael and Brooke.

Captain Ron always had lunch waiting for us – boiled ham, tomato and lettuce salad, Cool Whip for dessert. Invariably he wore short ‘80s shorts and a wild Florida print shirt. He had a deep tan from years of boating. He’d gotten some sort of settlement from Social Security after a work-related accident back in ’78 right when his marriage to Mike’s mother came to an end. Since then there’ve been two more wives. Now, Prospect No. 4 is trying her charms on him.

“What do you think, Jim?”

Ron came over to me in the living room that first afternoon. I was lying on the sofa reading Michael Cunningham and he stood in front of me, his face turned one way, then the other like Carol Merrill showing off a prize on “Let’s Make a Deal.”

I knew what he wanted me to say, so I played stupid.

“Think about what, Ron?” I asked in as innocent a tone as I could muster.

"This." He tossed his jaw one more time to the left, then to the right.

I knew stupid could only go so far. "Oh, of course! How nice."

“How nice” was the kiss-of-death compliment in the Deep South. Luckily Ron came from Detroit so he didn't get it. Perhaps he just chose to ignore it.

Muddy

We’d replaced the chiller system, the emergency generator. We’d gotten new elevators, we’d replaced all the windows and doors in the common areas with hurricane impact-resistant glass. We’d spent the money for a new pool and we’d repaved the driveway. No one in the building had raised so much as a peep.

When we put “repainting the lobby” on the board’s monthly meeting notice, however, all hell done broke loose. We hired a decorator to suggest three colors and loved ‘em all. Three different shades of taupe to go nicely with the black and white marble floors, the cherry wood columns and trim, the off-white marble columns and staircase. A nice change from the yucky canary yellow currently on the walls.

Forty-five red-faced residents attended the meeting that Thursday night. In four years of serving on the board, I’d never seen so many angry owners. This one wanted green, that one wanted white. This one wanted orange, that one wanted cream. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a better idea.

“How can this board trash the building like this?”

“Why is the board using an outside decorator when we’ve got plenty of professional decorators right here in the building?”

“I want white!”

“I want a light cream!”

“I want a really, really dark brown!”

Calgon … take me away.

Off again, on again

“Oh, God, no! Don’t tell me they’re back together again.”

“I know, Tim, it’s a sickening spectacle when they keep going back and forth.”

“You’d think they were teenagers running around a hamster track. So what is it this time, Bill?”

Bill made a squishy face at me. It turned out Jonathan didn’t mind Darren sleeping around as much as he minded quiet evenings alone.

“Groan! Last time I heard Jonathan talk about it, you’d have thought Darren was a combination of Attila the Hun and Leona Helmsley. Why can’t he make up his mind? Is there anywhere that train is going but Splitsville?”

“I know, I know, but love is blind, Tim. Love is blind.”

“That’s just the problem, Bill. If love were blind, Jonathan wouldn’t see how gorgeous Darren is and forgive him for every terrible thing he does.”

“A given. So let’s forget about them. What about us? Are we still a couple or not? Huh, what gives?”

A big mistake

Mike and I walked into the Castro Street Gym. Mike swiped his guest membership card, but I scrambled to find mine in the backpack. No dice. “Could you look up my membership? I lost the card.”

The purple-haired tattooed twink with the nose ring gave me a blank stare. “Uh, okay.”

“Mike, you go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

“I need the combination lock, honey.”

I fished in the netted compartment and came up empty. “Woops. It’s gone, don’t know where it is. Oh, wait a second. I left it in the car in my suitcase. Anyway, you go on ahead and I’ll run back to the car and get it.”

“Hey, you,” the twink said, “found your membership. Go on in.”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes – gotta run to the car.”

The twink called after me, “don’t forget to swipe your membership card when you come in!”

I couldn’t help but laugh – that twink couldn’t remember a thing. So I turned three blocks and found the rental Prius. The back hatch was empty. Where was our luggage? Gone!

I opened the hatch … unlocked. I opened the side door … unlocked. I hadn’t locked the car when we walked away from it. Just five minutes ago. Now all our luggage was gone. My laptop, with the novel on it … gone. Mike’s work papers, with the company’s payroll on it … gone.

Woops!

Gone

Betty Neale woke up that Saturday morning with the sun. It’d snowed yesterday and looking out the window gave her a big, big headache. “Grandma, Grandma!” she yelled out the room, “It’s a blue sky and sunny!

She ran across the hallway to her grandparents’ room, but the tussled sheets didn’t have any occupants. Grandpa was probably already down at the store and Grandma, making breakfast for her and little Ralph.

Betty went down the stairs to the kitchen – but Grandma sat in the living room chair, crying, and Grandpa stood above her. He never wore a suit this early in the morning! “Betty, sweetheart, come to Grandma,” she whimpered. Something bad has happened to Grandma so Betty ran over and climbed into her lap.

“My precious, precious little girl, oh how I love you.”

“What’s wrong, Grandma?”

But Grandma didn’t say anything for the longest time. Grandpa just paced about, asking, “When will August be home?” Grandma just held Betty close to her, rocking back and forth. Finally little Ralph came down the stairs to play with his blocks on the living room floor.

And then the front door opened and Betty saw her father’s gray face and thick brown stubble. Mr. Smith stood behind him.

Grandma addressed her son directly. “Tell us about Mary, August. What’s happened?”

“She’s gone, Mother. Six-thirty this morning. Betty, Ralph, you must be very, very brave. Your mother’s gone to heaven. I’m going upstairs for a shower and a shave.”

My fingers

“Nanny and Granddad are here, Jimmy. Come out to the living room and join us.” I was lying on the sofa, watching The Flintstones. I didn’t want to move from my comfortable position and Gilligan’s Island would soon be on. I had a big crush on the Professor and I didn’t want to miss the episode.

“Ah, Mom, do I have to?”

“Yes, Jimmy, they’re your grandparents. Come now!”

I trudged out to the living room. Granddad sat in his usual chair, posture perfect, but leaning down to pet the dog. Heather had a thing for him. I think she liked his voice or something. Nanny sat on the sofa, her gnarled fingers even worse than last Thanksgiving. I went over and gave her a hug.

Nanny pointed to the coffee table. “Jim, look what I brought for you.”

A gift, I thought? Excited, I looked down and saw some music, a Beethoven sonatina. I tried to hide the disappointment that it wasn’t a Matchbox car.

“Thank you, Nanny! I’ll take it to my teacher and play it for you the next time you come to visit!”

I was all set to reverse gears and head back to the den – the Professor and his tight whities would be on in two minutes – when she asked me to play it for her now. “Go on, I’d like to hear you play.”

I trudged over to the piano and eked out what I could sight read from the Beethoven sonatina. Not too hard, I thought. G minor never gave me too many problems. When I was done, Nanny and Granddad clapped. I turned around and saw tears in Nanny’s eyes. The Professor could wait.

Debra and Susan (Photo #8)

Debra and Susan sat in their chairs that morning, watching the sunbathers drone by on their way to the beach. Young men had so much sexual energy, Debra told Susan that day. “Do you remember when we’d head to Heron Cove like that? Nothing could stop us.”

Today Debra had woken up with a sharp pain in her left hip. Trudging down the creaky staircase of their house had taken longer than she cared to admit. So much noise, she’d woken Susan, “Honey, is something wrong? Can I help you?”

Susan had her own problems that day. Lately she’d been suffering from a neuralgia that made her arms and legs tingle in the morning and the evening. Her Doctor said it was only temporary, but it always coincided with heavy fatigue. She sat in her chair, bare feet intertwined with Debra’s. Years ago when they’d first bought this house and placed a pair of chairs at the front fence, they’d had smooth, thin feet that fit into Audrey Hepburn high heels. Now their feet barely fit into the low-cut boots, especially when they flew south for the winter. Debra had to take her shoes off on airplanes.

“What’s stopping us now, Debra? Why can’t we go to Heron Cove?”

Debra gave Susan a withering look that said, Are you nuts? We can’t walk two miles in sand, carrying fifteen pounds on our backs. Much better to sit here and watche the young boys and girls go by.

She had a point, Susan thought. Yes, dear, but we can at least try to relive what we once had, before we put all that away. Just once, honey, for my sake …

Motherhood

Jim walked in the door after a long day, working at Google, and took stock. Chester’s bowl needed fresh water. It was time for his nightly feeding. He needed to go out for a walk. Check mark for the doggie. Dudley needed to have his evening treat, half a kiwi on his perch plus a few pets so he felt loved. Check mark for the birdie.

Today was Tuesday, which meant snapper and Brussels sprouts for dinner. Start the convection oven, by the time it heated up, the fish would be ready to go in. Get the produce out of the refrigerator, sort it – romaine, tomatoes, celery, red onion for the salad and the Brussels sprouts for the steamer. The fish, don’t forget the fish! A glass pan with the Reynold’s wrap liner, two juicy filets of snapper in parallel, season them with olive oil + lemon + kosher salt + fresh-ground black pepper + dried basil. Off goes the bell and yes! In the oven went the fish. Twenty minutes until dinner – time to walk Chester. That would give Jim ten minutes to get the Brussels sprouts steamed and the tossed salad prepared.

Tuesday meant two other things – laundry (two loads tonight: whites and towels, coloreds waited until Thursday) and brining Wednesday’s chicken. Jim got the whites in the washing machine. They always went first, after all. Better to fold the towels late in the evening than the socks and underwear. Wednesday they ate chicken, so Tuesday evening he soaked the breasts in the brine solution. Check mark for the laundry and the chicken.

Off went the bell again, the fish was ready. He got it out, put it on the plates, tossed the Brussels sprouts in olive oil and kosher salt, made the dressing, and wiped his brow.

Mike walked in the door. “Hi, honey!”

“Hi, sweetheart. Dinner is ready!”

“Sorry, honey, I’m not really hungry tonight.”

At the grocery store

God, no. Elliott stood in the dairy section, tossing packages of Greek jogurt into his shopping cart. I could get milk, eggs, and bacon some other time. So I headed for the produce department.

Hmm, I didn’t ordinarily get a lot of produce. Could I meander here until Elliott checked out? He never bought more than five or six items at a time. That’s what had always bothered me about him. He’d go shopping every day, insisting we had the absolute most fresh food in the house possible. I hated shopping (at least with him) – in and out. So here I was, stalling in the produce section.

I saw a bunch of bananas I liked, so in they went. I saw some apples, so I picked four I thought looked good. In they went. But the vegetables? Yuck. Elliott always made us eat green salads for dinner with tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, radishes – you name it, he threw everything in except the kitchen sink. It was torture for me to eat all those salads.

I’ll head over to the meat section. That’s where I always do my shopping. Lots of beef, chicken, pork – more my style than Elliott’s. He liked to have fish six days a week and treated himself to a lean filet on Saturdays. Boring! But there he was, waiting in line at the meat counter. I saw him pick up a stack of six packages. Steaks, every single one of them. So I turned and went into the cereal lane.

Another point of contention – our morning breakfasts. He’d have slow-cooking oatmeal, but me, I liked my Honey Nut Cheerios. So I picked up a box of them. Hmm. Elliott was taking longer than I thought. Maybe he’s changed. I decided to make a dash for the check-out counter.

I got behind this lady in spandex and sunglasses. Why’s she wearing sunglasses? It’s raining cats and dogs outside. Plastic surgery job, too. Totally get her, this Floridiot (that’s an idiot who lives in Florida, by the way). She’s taking forever to check out. God, no. Here comes Elliott. I look down at my stuff.

He taps me on the shoulder. “Fancy seeing you here! What’s it been, nine months?”

Not anywhere near long enough. “Hi, Elliott! I’m so happy to see you!”

The lawn

“Now Jimmy,” Mom admonished. “You were those heavy boots when you cut the grass! We paid good money for them and you need to wear them. If you don’t, you’ll slip when the grass is wet and get your feet eaten up by the lawn mower.”

Mom was always over-dramatizing. Didn’t she know I could take care of myself? I was fifteen years old. I’d been taking care of myself for years. Just last month I’d managed to sizzle a Steak-um in the frying pan. It’d turned out pretty good – and it’d been pretty easy to clean up those grease stains on the kitchen cabinets. No big deal, even though Mom had acted like I’d ripped her favorite leisure suit to shreds.

“Say, Jimmy …” Mom added.

“Jimmy!” I replied.

“Don’t be smart. Always a smart-aleck, you’ll get yourself in trouble one day. Now Jimmy, I want you to fold a load of laundry for me. Can you do that for me?”

“Ah, Mom, I’m watching Speed Racer.”

That did it for Mom. She marched over to the television and turned it off. She wagged her finger at me – I didn’t like it when she did that, especially if she was wearing her pointy glasses – so I shrugged my shoulders and headed down the stairs. It was just a load of laundry after all. And perhaps I would rip her favorite leisure suit to shreds, after all.

Bedside table

George squinted and spat out his question. “Martha, where are my reading glasses?”

She wanted to answer 'Up your ass, you jerk' but reminded herself, they’d agreed to be nice to each other in therapy. “I’ll get them, darling. I put them in your nightstand last week.”

“Make it snappy, darling,” George said, placing an accent so heavy on the last word, Martha heard 'You uptight bitchy witch' between the lines. “I’m trying to read my American Spectator.”

She’d just have to dawdle. Passive-aggressive behavior was highly underrated, Martha thought, even though Daphne had scolded her for it. Therapy could be a drag. Anger had to come out, one way or the other. Finally she opened his nightstand drawer.

Funny, Martha thought, what’s that open box? Condoms? They hadn’t used condoms in ten years. Not much need, after all, she’d long since gone through menopause. She looked in – the box was open – and did inventory. Three condoms missing from the box’s ten. Hmm. Back in the condom days George had always gone through three of them – every time they had sex.

She found the glasses, stomped on them, hid them under the mattress, and walked back out to the living room. “Funny, darling, I can’t find your glasses anywhere.”

Martha wondered if George heard 'You idiot cocksucker asshole, you’ve ruined my life' in the contours of her “darling.”

Ten years ago

Ten years ago I turned 38 years old. Today I turned 48.

Ten years ago I ran four miles by the beach three times a week. Today it takes me seventy-five seconds to get out of the car with my artificial hip.

Ten years ago I read the small print of “Crime and Punishment” in a paperback by the sunlight of a Florida afternoon. Today I buy only hardbacks like “Black Swans” in large print and use my reading glasses.

Ten years ago I stripped naked and looked down. Not only did I see my penis and my toes, but I also saw my testicles and my ankles. Today I have to use a mirror to see those beloved jewels.

Ten years ago my back had the soft white skin and galaxy of freckles of a red-headed Irishman. Today I’ve got a purplish scar from skin cancer surgery that looks like Jupiter’s red spot.

Ten years ago I had a hard time fitting my thick red hair under a baseball cap. Today my crown gets sunburned and the skin up there peels if I don’t wear the baseball cap.

Ten years ago I borrowed money from my parents to buy furniture for my house and I took three or four years to pay them back. Today I wipe the drool from my mother’s stroke-disabled chin and I remind my father how to turn the stove on to 350 degrees and that he’s supposed to go to church on Sundays.

Ten years ago I looked at myself and saw the glass half full. Today I look at myself and realize it’s half empty. That makes every day all the more precious.

Queen Alexandra

Ya never know when you pick up a 1937 issue of Harper’s Bazaar, what it’s gonna make you think of. I picked it up and saw that article, “Queen Victoria Is Dead,” (note the punctuation: “Is” is capitalized in the title) and thought, Oh boy, an article about the longest-reigning queen in world history – at least until September 10, 2015 when Queen Elizabeth II surpasses that mark. Every queen in the world is going to celebrate that day along with the Queen. The queens and their Queen.

But NO … but NO, the article has almost nothing to do with Queen Victoria. It’s all about that wussy receding-chinned pussy-whipped degenerate David, also known as King Edward VIII who quit (what a loser) after less than a year on the throne, all because he couldn’t give up that twice-divorced pussy Wallis (what was it about that slut that attracted him, God only knows). As a fag hag, the Duchess of Windsor didn’t measure up. But Victoria Regina … and Elizabeth II, God love them. And Diana too – never forget Diana! The fag hag of all time.

It’s undeniable to me, women have a power over men. Straight men, we know what it is about women that give them power. Gay men, there are a million different attractions. Too bad Queen Alexandra’s been forgotten. Victoria was great in her imperious way and Elizabeth II has kept the monarchy dignified despite her slutty sons. But Queen Alexandra! She was the Diana of the Edwardian era, the one who was smart enough to (a) not divorce Edward VII and (b) outlive him. Edward VII was a lousy king but she was a great queen.

Little boy peaking over the wall

Jimmy stepped up to the stoop from the sand and peaked over the wall into the master bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Smith stood on opposite sides of the bed. Jimmy didn’t like them because Mrs. Smith yelled at her smarmy daughters and slapped Jeff that one time. Mr. Smith had a heavy scratchy face and swayed from side to side every evening. Those evening he gave off a pungent sharp smell that made Jimmy gag. Mommy and Daddy didn’t like them either. Mommy said they were probably going to get a divorce. Jimmy didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded awful.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith weren’t wearing any clothes. Mrs. Smith had her backside to the window. She had a funny rear end, like the curdles of cottage cheese gone bad. Jimmy gagged again. Her blonde hair wasn’t tied into a skin-tight ponytail like it usually was. She had it so tight, her eyes popped out of her head like that Martha Mitchell lady who was always yelling on TV. She looked like Martha Mitchell, too – except that Jimmy liked Martha Mitchell.

Mr. Smith faced Mrs. Smith and he was naked, too – but he looked funny. His penis stood up all by itself, like it was Peter Pan or something. Jimmy felt a wave of excitement come over him when Mr. Smith put his leg up on the bed – and then Mr. Smith looked out the window and saw Jimmy staring at him.

Jimmy ran and ran and ran back to their own cottage. “Mommy, I saw Mr. Smith attacking Mrs. Smith in their bedroom and then he saw me. I’m scared he’ll hurt me, Mommy!”

“I always knew they were trouble, Jimmy. I think they’re headed for a divorce.”

I am so grateful for ...

“Yeah, well look at me here. I’m 45, I’m unemployed, I’m 50 pounds overweight, my wife dumped me last year for a 25-year old aerobics instructor, and I lost my house in the divorce. Just what do I have to be grateful for?”

Liz straightened her posture and plopped the beer mugs on the table. Her lower back hurt and her shoes were too tight. She hated men who felt sorry for themselves.

“Look,” she said, “you’re sitting here on your ass watching a hockey game on TV and all your best friends are here. You’ve got a bar tab that’s a year overdue and Tony doesn’t make you pay. Seems like you got nothing to complain about, you know what I mean?”

“What bug’s up your ass, Liz?”

She rolled her eyes and went to the next table. The mailman – big pain in the neck, too. Always trying to ask her out on a date. “Hey, Liz, why don’t you sit down a moment, give your feet and your back a rest. Ain’t easy being a bar waitress.”

“Look,” she said, “I’m not interested in you, so scram, you know what I mean?” She put his beer mug in front of him and turned on her heal, but she twisted her ankle. The mailman got up and helped her into his chair.

“Liz, you sit right here. About time someone took care of you for once.”

Pregnant

What a fine mess I’ve gotten myself into. Just came from the doctor’s office. I was going to get a pedicure, but I need to cancel it. All I want to do right now is go home and crawl into bed.

How could this happen? Well, of course I know how it happened. Six weeks ago, that’s all it was. Just that one time, I swear! If only I’d made him use a condom, I wouldn’t be in this fix now. Now I’m going to be carrying … carrying … this THING inside of me. How long will it be before I’m released from this burden? It’s going to be a rough few years ahead, dealing with this. All from just a single moment of passion.

Men, you can’t trust them. He said he was okay, that we didn’t need a condom. They always lie, just like in “The Women.” Can’t trust a man, wish I could be one of those women with their Jungle Red fingernails. All I’d have to do to be happy is get a divorce. Hell, I never even got married – and now I’ve got to carry this pox inside of me, probably to full term. I’d love to get rid of it, but I just can’t.

That’s the last time I’ll ever let a man screw me … at least without a condom. All it takes is once, that’s what they always said and I didn’t believe them. And now I’m carrying HIV. Mama told me this might happen when I told her I was gay.

You know what, I’ll get the pedicure after all. I’ll tell them to do it in Jungle Red.

A strain on the relationship

Aaron and Caleb, attached to the hip ever since they'd met seven years ago in Salinas at the John Steinbeck festival, couldn't agree on the proper shade of beige for their new house. They'd drained themselves of energy trying to agree how to decorate the interior, practically ripping out each other's hair in the process and even sleeping in separate bedrooms for a short time. But eventually Cable got horny and since beating off to Internet porn could go only so far, he climbed into bed with Aaron and nudged him between his legs with his you-know-what.

"I'm just a hole to you!" Aaron pretended to complain, but Caleb could tell he was gaining momentum. Not to mention the promise of great sex ... and another crest of their relationship cycle. Caleb poked and prodded, Aaron resisted, Caleb got pissed, Aaron relented, Caleb poked and prodded again.

Now they were bickering over the two shades of beige and Lilly was having none of it. Who cared if it was Milano Ecru or Platinum Silk? No one outside of these two decorators could ever tell the difference. She wondered how in the dickens two decorators (especially Aaron, into mid-century modern stuff, and Caleb, into art deco) could ever live together, let alone agree on anything. Here they were, making a federal case about two shades of beige you could barely tell were different. As if anyone walking down their San Francisco street would even notice.

Lilly was glad she never got married.