0 comments/ 5600 views/ 1 favorites Still Crazy By: 50plus1 A dozen years ago Scott and Carol had an affair. At the time they each had their own reasons why it began, but once it did, it took on a life of its own. They had been friends for many years, and remained friends even after Carol moved halfway across the country following her husband to a new job. But during the two-years the affair lasted, sex dominated every moment they spent together. They fucked in cars; they fucked in the woods at local parks; they fucked on the desk in Scott's office; at times, if they were lucky, they even fucked in a bed, if one of their houses was empty. For months they met each afternoon in a seldom-used stairwell and fucked, standing up, before Carol left in her vanpool. It was sitting in the van, her pussy filled with Scott's come, that she figured out if she crossed her legs just so, and squeezed them just right, she could apply pressure to her clit. Carol's legs had been crossed for the past 10 minutes in the nearly empty Metro car, and the pressure was starting to build. She looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then closed her eyes and focused on what she planned to do to and with Scott later that day. Soon she felt a familiar warmth spread upward from that single point of contact; her pussy overflowed, soaking her new thong. The orgasm that swept over her was her fourth of the still-young day. Number one was in bed, when she woke up wet after dreaming of Scott's cock; two and three were in the shower at her hotel. Scott was mostly unaware of Carol's plans as he drove through suburban Virginia toward the Metro station. Although they regularly talked on the phone and exchanged emails, he hadn't seen her in nearly four years. And he had never been alone with her since the affair ended. By mutual agreement, they didn't want to risk resurrecting something they controlled so badly the first time around. Today risk and control were the last things on Carol's mind. For years she had been effectively sexless. Sex with her husband, which had never been good, was now virtually non-existent. She didn't miss it. And she had never been comfortable taking care of herself. Then a friend told her about a web site -- Literotica. Visiting Literotica -- reading stories and, later, talking to people on the Board -- reminded her of what she was missing. Women she met on Lit helped her understand that there is nothing wrong with making yourself come. And once she started, stopping was out of the question. Of course all the toys in the world are no substitute for the real thing. And there was only one real thing that Carol knew she both wanted and could have. Scott suspected something was up when Carol told him that she would be in D.C. on business during the same week his wife was away visiting family, and suggested that they spend part of a day together. But as he pulled into the Fairfax Metro Station he had no idea what, exactly, was headed his way. Carol's heart was still beating quickly and her face was slightly flushed as she stepped off the train. She stopped in a rest room to wipe off the streams of thick warm liquid flowing down both her legs, and after a moment's thought, tossed her drenched panties into the trash. She had a clean pair in her purse, and the thought of walking through the Metro station with nothing on beneath her sundress was too enticing to pass up. The welcoming hug at the top of the escalator lasted just a moment too long; the kiss hello lingered on the lips, not the cheek; and Scott knew as they walked to his car that Carol was not wearing a bra. She didn't need one to support her small breasts, but the lightweight dress did little to hide the fact that her nipples had hardened despite the summer heat. Scott opened the door for her, catching a glimpse of thigh as she climbed inside. The sexual tension in the car was palpable even before they left the parking lot. Carol reached over and laid her hand on the bulge in Scott's shorts. He flinched, and the car swerved slightly on the two-lane road. "Careful, Scott," Carol said, smiling. "You used to be able to focus better." "I'm out of practice," he replied, then, after a short pause. "Is this a good idea?" "Do you want me to stop?" she asked, tracing the outline of his cock through the fabric. It was a rhetorical question. Like all men, it didn't take much to make Scott start thinking with his little head. "Not really," he conceded. Carol's hand moved down his leg and rested lightly on the exposed skin above his knee. Scott glanced down and watched as her hand slid under his shorts and boxers. Her fingers encircled his cock, squeezing gently. It felt familiar in her hand -- thick and hard. Carol unbuttoned his shorts, reached inside and pulled his cock through the opening in his boxers. This time when she squeezed a drop of clear fluid escaped from the tip. She unfastened her seat belt and leaned across the seat. "Try not to crash," she said, as she bent down and transferred the drop to her tongue. She savored the salty taste and squeezed him again, searching for more. Carol took the head between her lips and ran her tongue over the smooth warm flesh, spending extra time on the sensitive spot below the tip. Her hand cupped Scott's balls and massaged them gently, rolling them between her fingers. She took him deeper into her mouth, as deep as she could from this angle, until she felt the head touch the back of her throat. Scott rested his right hand on her back and tried to keep the car on the road as Carol's head began to move up, and down. He arched his hips to meet her, fucking her mouth as he drove. He didn't last long. "I'm going to come," he warned, grasping the steering wheel with both hands. Carol already knew. She had felt his balls contract, his hips tense. She kept just the head in her mouth, running her tongue around it as her hand stroked his shaft. She moaned as the first spurt of thick warm come hit the back of her throat. He shot again, and again, and she swallowed quickly, not wasting a drop. She kept her mouth on him until his cock started to soften, then sat up. "You still taste really really good," she said. "You're still really good at sucking my cock," Scott replied. He pulled off the road into the parking lot of a vacant store. He kissed her, hard, tasting his come as his tongue explored her mouth. He squeezed her nipple through her dress, softly at first, then harder as she moved against him. "How much longer to your house?" she asked, when their lips finally parted. "Maybe 15 minutes," he said. "It will go faster if you put your seat back." As Scott pulled back onto the road, Carol found the button and reclined her seat as far as it would go. He slid his hand under her dress. "No panties?" he asked. "I lost them in the Metro station," she said. "Is that a problem?" Scott responded by slipping his middle finger between the swollen lips of her sopping pussy. Carol spread her legs wider to give him easier access as he pressed deeper inside. When his finger was drenched with her juices, he removed it from her pussy and found her swollen clit. It slid easily over the small nub. Carol's legs were wide open now; her dress was pulled up around her hips. Anyone driving by in an SUV or truck could have seen her straining against Scott's hand, but she was oblivious to everything except the feelings building inside her. She cried out when she came. Scott kept up the steady gentle pressure on her clit, and soon she came again, holding onto the handle above the door as if she was afraid she might fall out. She had no idea they were at Scott's house until his hand left her to open the garage door. Scott's finger left a wet spot on the opener. He licked his fingers as he pulled into the garage. Scott turned to look at Carol as the door closed behind them, and couldn't help laughing. Her dress was still bunched at her waist, her pussy still exposed and glistening, and at some point she had managed to make a mess of her hair. "You look beautiful," he said. "I look like I just came," Carol said, "but if you think that's beautiful I won't argue." Scott helped her out of the car, making a mental note to clean the puddle off the passenger seat. He kissed her in the garage, her back bent over the trunk, his cock pressed hard against her thigh; then again in the kitchen, grinding his hips against her with his hands on her ass. "Bedroom," she said, when they came up for air. "Top of the stairs, on the left," he said. Scott followed her up the steps, his eyes on her ass, and stayed behind her when she entered the bedroom. He pulled her hair aside and kissed her neck as he pulled down the zipper of her dress. He pushed it off her shoulders and let it fall to her feet, then took her breasts in his hands as he continued to kiss her neck and shoulders. He rubbed his palms over her nipples. Carol turned and found his mouth. She fumbled with the buttons on his shirt as they kissed, then gave up and pulled it over his head. Scott pushed her back towards the bed and sat her on the edge. He kneeled on the floor between her legs. Carol held herself up on her elbows and watched as Scott spread the lips of her pussy with his fingers. She felt his tongue slowly lick all the way from her asshole, to her clit. He lapped at her like a cat over a saucer of milk, swallowing the warm fluid that his probing tongue helped create. Carol let herself fall backward onto the bed. She spread her legs wider. Her hands found her nipples. Scott continued to explore her pussy. He fucked her with his tongue, thrusting it between the swollen lips. His hands cupped her ass and pulled her against him, giving him greater access. She made a small whimpering sound, and came, unleashing a fresh torrent into his mouth. Scott moved upward and found Carol's clit. She gasped and thrust her hips against him as he licked it with long slow strokes. She was breathing heavily now, and moaning each time his tongue made a pass over her clit. Then, when she thought she could take no more, Scott slipped his fingers inside her. He spread them apart and explored the soft wet walls of her pussy. He probed upward, searching for the spot that would push her over the edge. It was right where he left it all those years ago, and when he applied gentle pressure, Carol cried out and tried to push him away. Scott held her down with his left arm, and kept a steady rhythm with his fingers. The orgasm that followed shook her entire body. She screamed. Scott withdrew his dripping hand and held her until her breathing returned, almost, to normal. Then he stood beside the bed between her legs, unfastened his shorts and pushed them and his boxers over his hips. When they fell to the floor, his cock stood straight out from his body, a drop of pre-come glistening at the tip. "I want you inside me," Carol said, her eyes never leaving his cock. "It's not like you have a choice," Scott replied, Carol moved backward onto the bed, and Scott crawled between her legs. He leaned down and kissed her as the head of his cock touched the entrance to her pussy. Slowly, he pushed inside - inch by inch - until his cock was completely surrounded by warm, soft, wet, flesh. Carol wrapped her legs around him and pulled him closer, searching for a last millimeter of penetration. She remembered that feeling. She remembered all the times she had felt him come inside her; all the times she had milked him with her mouth. For a while they just lay there, savoring the feel of flesh on flesh. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids and her mouth -- then lowered his lips to her breasts. She squeezed her pussy around his cock, and he responded by subtly moving his hips, exerting a gentle pressure on her clit. "Fuck me," she said. Without a word, Scott spread Carol's legs wide and put his hands on her thighs. He pulled back until just the head of his cock was touching her pussy, then thrust into her with a single deep, hard stroke. His balls smacked against her ass. "Like that?" he asked. "Harder," she said. Needing no more encouragement, he began fucking her in earnest, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. Each thrust made a wet smacking sound as their bodies came together. The room filled with the smell of wet pussy and sweat. He forgot everything except her pussy and the way it gripped his cock on each stroke. She forgot everything but his cock and the way it filled her, the way it spread her, the way it pushed her ever closer to the edge. When Carol came, Scott just fucked her harder, turning one orgasm into two, then three, until she couldn't tell where one stopped and the next began. She began to cry out in rhythm with Scott's frenzied fucking. He felt his own orgasm start to build. He held it off as long as he could, trying to prolong the delicious feeling. Finally, with a final deep thrust, he let go. Carol felt his cock spasm, followed by a flood of warmth as his hot come flooded her pussy. Scott collapsed into her arms. She ran her hands over his back and kissed him, all the while gripping him tightly with her legs, making sure his softening cock stayed inside her. "Thank you," she whispered in his ear. "That's exactly what I came for." Still Crazy Insanity runs in my family. Despite that fact, every Monday for the past two — no, three — years, my psychoanalyst Chamomile (yes, like the tea!) has told me the same thing: "Leonard, you're not nuts. You're not crazy. You're not a lunatic. You simply have some issues we need to work out." Several sessions ago, however, after diagnosis of and treatment for attention deficit disorder dismally failed, Chamomile seemed a tad more ready to accept my insanity plea. In fact by last session she seemingly had surrendered to my layman's self-assessment of what particular form of mental illness afflicts my weary psyche. "OK, Leonard, you are nuts. You are insane. You are a crazed lunatic," she'd told me. "But now that we've accepted that fact — that you are a lunatic, Leonard, that you are insane — we must now embrace that insanity, Leonard, embrace it, and devour it, Leonard!" Devour it? Chamomile, my trusted psychoanalyst — though only a social worker, not even a lowly psychologist — had told me to eat my insanity. Needless to say, I've stopped seeing Chamomile. When I told Dad about Chamomile's diagnosis and prescribed treatment, he merely knowingly shook his head as if to say "I told you so." Ever since the time Dad had joined me in one of my sessions with Chamomile, he'd harped continuously on the fact that Chamomile sat, barefoot, legs folded "Indian-style" the entire fifty-five minutes the three of us chatted. "What kind of psychiatrist doesn't wear shoes?" Dad had asked me over and over again. "Dad, she's not a psychiatrist," I'd tried to explain to him. "Psychiatrist, psychologist — what's the difference?" Dad had responded. "No, Dad," I'd explained to him. "She's not a psychologist either." "So what the hell is she?" Dad had inquired. "Maybe she's a chef," he'd chortled. "After all, she wants you to eat your insanity — maybe she has a nice recipe for it!" That was that. I'd heard enough from Dad. I'd heard enough also, I decided, from Chamomile. I'd long ago accepted my insanity — I suppose even embraced it. But Chamomile's bologna about eating it, well, that was enough to .... It's Monday. I sit now with Chamomile in her office. I have this uncanny ability to talk my head off to her while my mind wanders off far, far away. Chamomile is explaining her suggestion of last week that I devour my insanity. It's based on what she calls Freud's — albeit little-known — "ramake theory." "Pretend your insanity is a chicken liver," Chamomile's advising me. "Now, embrace that chicken liver." "What? How?" I ask. "Embrace it with something warm and comfy — comfort food," Chamomile offers (Could it be that after all this time my compulsive overeating is now the answer to my dilemma?) "Embrace my insanity with, say, an Italian beef sandwich?" I suggest to Chamomile. "Well, no," she says. "In keeping with the analogy, how about embracing your insanity — your chicken liver — with ..." Chamomile's face suddenly pales. "With bacon?" I wonder aloud. "Yes," Chamomile says, color returning to her face. I don't question the momentary change in her demeanor. I'd hate to admit I notice such things. But what exactly is it all about? Did she suddenly realize how preposterous this all sounds? "Freud says," Chamomile continues, "that by embracing our insanity — he used the analogy of chicken liver wrapped in bacon, or ramake — and then devouring it, we can metabolize its inherent psychological caloric content and, in turn, burn those psychic calories, toward a more mentally-healthful ..." Chamomile's face again pales. I'm pretending not to notice. "And?" I pipe in. She's staring blankly. "And?" I ask again. "We'll pick this up again next week," Chamomile says, color yet again returning to her face. I'm looking at the clock on the wall behind Chamomile's desk. But our fifty-five minutes aren't up. "Uh," I begin. Chamomile doesn't hear me. She's writing out the bill for this session. "Uh," I'm offering once more. "Yes, Leonard?" Chamomile is responding. "Uh," I'm saying — again. Chamomile's handing me the bill. I'm handing her a check for forty-five dollars — my insurance co-pay. "Fine. See you next week," Chamomile's telling me. Session's over. o Fast forward to next week's session that hasn't yet even occurred. "Cham, about the 'ramake theory,'" I'll start. ••••• It's Saturday. Later today Dad and I are probably heading out for dinner and a movie. It's been some time since either of us has had a girlfriend. In lieu of romance, we've accepted — embraced, I suppose — the mediocrity of father-son activities. Dad's a widower. My mom died of cancer when I was eighteen. I don't mind discussing it. I usually can express my feelings about Mom's death with a warped sense of good humor. Dad, however, each time we discuss Mom sinks into a chasm of deep depression. We don't discuss Mom much anymore. Actually, Dad spends most of his time griping about his second wife — not my mom — who divorced him, let's see, about three years ago. He says he hates "the bitch" — but, damn, that's a whole other story — yet he remains obsessed with her. There's even an order of protection "the bitch" had placed against him. Dad, who wouldn't harm a fly, used to stalk "the bitch." Well, not really stalk her — but that doesn't matter anymore. Dad's blind now. At least legally blind, because of his diabetes. I'm now also diabetic. I wonder if my insanity is sugar-free. •••••• Dinner was pretty good. The movie, though, sucked. It was supposed to be pretty good, too — like dinner. We had barbecued baby-back ribs — we love 'em! I think I'd rather my insanity was like a slab of barbecue baby-back ribs. I could easily devour that. The movie was about a talking pig. It's Sunday. I remember ramake now. From all the cocktail parties I've attended while covering some press conferences. It's an hors d'ourve. It's the rich man's pig-in-a-blanket. I love ramake. Maybe this whole insanity-devouring thing won't be so bad after all. •••••• Yesterday's session with Chamomile went pretty well. I told Cham I love ramake. I told her I'm now ready tot embrace and devour my insanity. We'll deal with that next session, Chamomile decided. Fifty-five minutes. Forty-five bucks. •••••• It's been six months since Chamomile suggested my insanity is bacon-covered chicken liver and that I ought eat it. So far, though, all I've devoured are Italian beef sandwiches. I'm still compulsively fat. And unhappy as hell. I'm insane and unhappy. And hungry for a cure for both maladies. •••••• Two years ago I allegedly ate my insanity — I ate my ramake. Last time I checked, though, I'm still unhappy. I'm still insane. I'm still hungry. And I'm still really, really fat. I now see Chamomile twice a week. Sessions are an hour-and-a-half, and cost me a hundred bucks each. We're working on another possible component of my mental illness, Chamomile says. This time it doesn't involve ramake. •••••• As it turns out, Chamomile had misinterpreted and misread Freud's theory. It's not the ramake theory; it's called the Rashomon theory. I googled it. Rashomon theory. I don't even want to go there. •••••• Turns out I was wrong. There is no Rashomon theory. I forgot I'm dyslexic. At least that's what Chamomile claims. These days I'm too impatient to scour the Internet on my own for answers. It's been five years since I ate my ramke. •••••• Dad reminds me every chance he gets that Chamomile doesn't wear shoes. "This rumpke shit," he says, "it's a bunch of bullshit!" "Ra-ma-ke," I correct Dad. "Ramake, shmamake," Dad says. "It's nothing but a bunch of barefoot bullshit!" Perhaps, I wonder, I should've eaten my shmamake. •••••• I'm attending Chamomile's wedding. It's her third. We've know each other long enough, she says, that it's all right for me to know her socially, and attend her wedding. Everywhere I look I see ramake. Chamomile's wedding cake is in the shape of a humongous chicken liver, and wrapped in frosting swirled to resemble bacon. •••••• Chamomile and I are celebrating our fourth wedding anniversary. Being married to my psychotherapist isn't as convoluted as I'd expected it to be. She's even a dandy cook. •••••• Chamomile and I divorced last year. There's a restraining order against me. Sessions are difficult: we have to meet at the criminal courts building, joined by Cham's attorney and a sheriff's deputy. No mention these days of ramake. •••••• Chamomile and I have reconciled. She's now pregnant. I'm not the father, though. It's the sheriff's deputy's. But it's me Chamomile loves. Or so she says. I've suggested we name the kid Ramake. Chamomile wants to "analyze" that. What a bitch. •••••• "Ramake came home from school today with a black eye," Chamomile tells me over dinner. "Mm-hmm," I mutter, concentrating on refilling my plate with Rice-A-Roni. "No chicken livers?" I ask. "The other kids make fun of him," Cham continues, pulling from my grasp the bowl of Rice-A-Roni. "You've had enough. You weigh four hundred pounds!" Like father, like son, I guess. Turns out that's why the kids at school make fun of Ramake. Even though he's only eight he weighs almost two hundred pounds. Funny thing, though; my dad has never been overweight. •••••• Last year Dad married his therapist, who I've never met, and of whom he discusses little. Unfortunately because Cham and I were in Vienna attending The Viennese Psychiatric Institute's annual Sigmund Freud Birthday Bash, we were unable to attend the wedding. All I know is that Dad and Oswald moved to Mexico following their honeymoon. •••••• Got word from Dad that Oswald's pregnant. All this time I'd worried Dad had turned gay, and it turns out Oswald's a woman. •••••• Ramake went to Cham in the custody battle. Lord knows we've tried to make our marriage work but ... •••••• Turns out I've been daydreaming. This is still that last session. I had with Chamomile. No marriage. No kid. Dad hasn't remarried. What about the ramake theory, I inquire. That happened. •••••• Turns out the daydream was a daydream. "You're not even listening to me!" Cham yells. "This is why we could never make it work." Chamomile is still my psychoanalyst. No attorney and sheriff's deputy, though. Her new husband, Enrique, a Colombian drug-runner who claims he has a doctorate in psychology, sits in on our sessions. He doesn't understand much English, though. My ass he doesn't. •••••• 'There is no Enrique. I've confused my ex with a girlfriend I had years and years ago. Chamomile says she has no plans to remarry, although she dates frequently. •••••• 'Turns out Ramake is mine. Chamomile had made up that story about an affair with the sheriff's deputy. She'd thought if I was jealous I wouldn't eat so much. For the first time I notice a resemblance between Ramake and myself. He's slimmed down, though. I did that once. A long, long time ago. •••••• Insanity runs in my family. Will Ramake too be insane? He's already diabetic. Still Crazy After All These Years Finally, after nineteen years, HE dumped ME. What a nerve! So now, the world's longest series of unfulfilled mutual crushes is finally over...or is it? Let me tell you the story. I've known "Buddy" since college, almost twenty years now. He sat directly across from me in the college band, a freshman smugly dropping himself into the first trumpet section. I was a sophomore, comfortably seated in the first flute section of the concert band. My first thoughts were along the lines of "arrogant jerk." My roommate thought he looked like a cartoon character. He was the proverbial Nice Jewish Boy - tall, thin, fuzzy-haired, impressive schnozz (nose to you non-Hebrews, get your mind out of the gutter) to match. Somewhere along the line, though, his arrogant front gave way to an awkward sweetness. I found out he was smart, talented and caring beyond all expectations. We became great friends. Up late, having legendary all-night chats about life, sex (or the lack thereof), music, science, and sex...typical smart-kid stuff. We'd share the occasional blow-out bender in one of our kitchens or at some local bar. Sometimes these things would overlap. We formed a jazz combo together, me playing saxophone, and got paying jobs all over the city. I introduced him to pot brownies right before a gig, and watched him giggle like mad while playing the clarinet. We'd crash at each other's apartments, oh so platonically, a quick hug before we crashed, watching the sun come up over the city. Somewhere along the line, I developed more than just a friendly affection for him, especially when it became clear that I was dumping my long-distance boyfriend. I sweetly got Buddy to 'share' his extra-long scarf with me on cold wintry nights. He didn't seem to mind me putting my hands in his coat pockets. Just for warmth. Things didn't change much, after college. He'd come visit me often in New York City, whether he was off in California, Michigan, Providence. He'd come along with everyone else to my annual New Year's party, too, with all my other college buddies. We'd wander the streets, go to the movies, go out for coffee, and go out for drinks. We'd talk all night, we'd share beds when my apartment was packed with visitors, awkwardly kissing goodnight while horizontal. I wondered what would happen, nothing ever did, that was cool, though. We'd always kiss goodnight, though, hugging in darkened hallways and whispering long after everyone else had fallen asleep. He turned down the first real pass, the one I made in college, a few weeks after the night of the scarf, before I broke my engagement. I turned down the next one, that he made a few years after college, just after I started dating a co-worker at my social work job, cursing my poor timing but pushing him away at the same time. He turned down the next one, made by mail, when he was in Berkeley newly single and I was in New York newly single and I said alright already, lets do this, and he said No. I was angry, terribly angry, cursing him out on the phone long-distance in an argument I could ill-afford. And so I devoted myself to the man I'd eventually marry, and separate from this year, and he married the woman he'd lived with for years. We kept on being friends. I became friends with his wife. He and my husband were never close, though; I always suspected that Steve sensed the muted sparks between me and Buddy. So when she dumped him this year, here we were. Again. Single. Back to square fucking one. You know, when you make a clumsy, abortive pass at your best friend when you're twenty, it's charming; at twenty-five, amusing. At thirty-eight, it's absurd. This brings us to New Years' Eve, when I found myself being kissed and caressed on a soon-to-become twenty-minute trek to take out the trash. Fortunately, none of my other friends had the wherewithal to clean up; our absence went slightly, drunkenly noticed. After some animated snogging and furtive caresses, I asked him, casually, if he wanted to move the Aerobed (his usual sleepover spot) into my room. "There's plenty of room...on the floor..." Just steps away from my underutilized queen-size bed. "No, that would be weird." Weird? When was this not weird? We're grown adults and at this point it would be weird not to seal the deal. Fine. I was stunned, disappointed and not a little bit horny. I hit the sack and had the good sense to contract strep throat in the meantime, avoiding the awkwardness the next morning with a raging fever and no voice to speak of. He stayed at my place a couple weeks later. At 3 AM or so, our peak conversational time, displaying an odd mix of body language, I found myself with my head in his lap (an unusually cuddly move) and my arms tightly crossed over my chest. With his thin but strong hand awkwardly resting on my shoulder, he laughs and says, "Catherine (his very recent ex-wife) says we should hook up." I don't mention that she said the exact same thing to me. I'd wondered if she'd felt guilty, or had some kind of material inside information to which I was not privy. I looked up at him, half-jokingly, and said, "You know, I'd be perfectly willing to take one for the team here...if it'll make her feel better, after all." Ha ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Awkward pause. Awkward laugh. Fumbling array of uncertainties. "You know what happ-" "Why do we have to-" "We should talk about-" What's the big-" Deep breath. "I don't know, babe. I just never thought it would ever work with us..." Weakly, "I just think we'd kill each other if we ever got together." I get it. It doesn't take eighteen years of abortive sexual serve-and-volley to realize that someone just isn't hot for you. Or willing to take a chance on finding out the truth. Fine. Full stop. It's over. No mas. Buh-bye. No more hugs, cuddles, snuggles, misinterpreted trash-can passes. However, I'm not one to leave anything unfinished. And I just can't resist one more.... "You do realize," I say, stretching, rising up off his lap, "that you started it this time." He's genuinely stunned. "What?" "Yeah. I remember mine. This one was yours, babe." I leave him the couch, puzzled, and alone. It's the end of an era. Or is it? See you in 2014, babe.