I... feel... so... wonderful.

Every atom of my body, every cell... sated. I can't even begin to describe how deliciously delicious the whole experience finally was when I finally experienced it. He had me begging for more.

"More... more... more cheese on my chili cheese fries, please."

Since Christian was sound asleep, I decided to head out for a nosh. And a burger. Mostly, a burger. I ended up at a place called Frisco Burgers, where they advertise they make a good, old-fashion hamburger. It's on Yarborough Boulevard, and I immediately liked it because it had a quaint 50's feel to it.

And food.

"I'll have what they're having," I told the waiter when he brought me a menu.

"Who?" he asked.

"Everybody."

Christian is always telling me not to limit myself, so I started here.

When I got back home, Christian was still snoring away. I took off all my clothes and started to crawl into bed with him, and that brings me back to the present.

Christian wakes up. He gives me that big billion-dollar morning-breath smile of his.

"Was I good, or what?" he asks, stretching his arms in contentment.

"Um... yeah."

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah, good."

"Damn right, I was good!"

He does the fist-pump, gives himself a high-five, and says, "And that, my dear, is the snap, crackle, pop of that tune. If you had half as much fun as I did, Ana, then I had twice as much fun as you. You've opened yourself to me like a flower, and I want to water that flower, fertilized that flower, reflower that flower so I can deflower it all over again. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I'm a flower."

"Yes, you're a flower. And I, the gardener. Gardening his garden gardeningly. I once saw a sign that advertised free pillows, but when I went inside and requested one, I discovered they weren't free, after all. You had to purchase something in order to receive the pillow as a bonus. I argued with the salesman for an hour, but he refused to see things my way, so I bought the store and fired him. You see, Ana, I consider a promise to be a very sacred thing. Jesus' promise of salvation. Jerry Jones' promise that the Dallas Cowboys will make it to the Super Bowl. If you, like that salesman, break that promise to me, you will rue the day, I tell you. Rue the day!"

I smile and nod.

"I understand," I say, not understanding at all. My mind is a thousand miles away. At McDonald's. I wonder when they're bringing back the McRib.

"And on that note, my dear, this gardener must leave."

"Leave? So soon? Can't we do it? Again, I mean?"

"No, my sweet angel, I got mine. Besides, I don't want to overwhelm you with my superior love-making skills."

"Not even a little?"

"I'll call you," he says, and kisses me. "Hmm... you taste just like chili cheese fries. Is there no end to your surprises?"

I wave at him as he opens the door and walks into my closet.

"It's the other door." I tell him.

"I knew that," he tells me back and leaves.

How can I feel so good and so bad at the same time? On the one hand, my Frisco feast was delicious, but, on the other, I forgot to order dessert. Not to mention this Christian thing. How can he just wang-dang-doodle and go?

Too bad Kate's not here, she could talk to me about it. After all, she's got a lot of experience. A LOT of experience. She's told me proudly, on more than one occasion, that in high school her nickname was Corn Chip, because she was Frito Lay.

I once looked up the word "experience" in the dictionary and I saw a picture of Warren Beatty. He was pointing to a picture of Kate with one hand and giving a thumbs-up sign with the other.

But Kate's not here.

Needing to fatten this book up, I decide to call my mother instead.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Hi, mom. It's Ana."

"Oh, hi, Ana. Listen, I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to your graduation. Did you get my card?"

"I sure did, mom," I say. "It was beautiful."

And it was a beautiful card, wishing me a great graduation in a foreign language. I don't know what Bar Mitzvah means, but I'm sure it means something educational. Inside, she wrote, "I am SO proud of you, Alice. Enjoy this card. I was going to enclose money, but wasn't able to, as I had already sealed the envelope."

"Is there something wrong, dear?" she asks with her usual motherly sixth sense.

I start to cry.

"Oh, mom, I'm glad you asked. I have so much to tell you..."

"Sorry to cut you off, dear, but I've got to go. The cable guy just got here. Hey, he looks just like Jim Carrey!"

"What?"

"I've got to go."

"Well... if you have to go," I tell her, "I understand. I lov..."

"Bye!" she says chirpily, and hangs up.

I hang up the phone just as Kate walks in. I'm happy to see her, as this will give me more minutia to thicken this book up with.

"You certainly look well-fed," she says, giving me a suspicious eye. "Was Christian here?"

"He just left," I say, holding the eye in my hand. How long do I have to hang onto it before I can throw it away without hurting her feelings?

With two fingers, Kate's holding her nose.

"Why does it smell like chili cheese fries in here?"

"Kate!" I stammer guiltily, like the cat caught with the canary, "where've you been?"

"I was on a date."

"With who?"

"I think he was a dentist."

"What makes you think he was a dentist?"

"Because I didn't feel a thing."

That reminds me of the blind date Kate once set me up with. He was a heart doctor. It didn't end well. When I told Kate he said I looked like I had acute angina, she said, "That's good."

"It is?"

"Yes, because that's better than an ugly angina."

That Kate. What a kidder.

"Are you going to see him again?" I ask her, not really caring, but if she's busy talking about her date, then she won't be busy talking about mine.

"No," she answers. "I only went out with him because he was rich."

"You did?"

"Yes. I do something special for rich men that gets them really hot. In bed, I tell them it's okay to be rich. Speaking of rich, did you see Christian while I was gone?"

"Uh... gotta go," I tell her, and make my escape.

I leave her standing there with her tongue hanging out. She's so skinny, she looks like a thermometer.

I go to my room and close the door behind me. I want to see if Christian has sent me an email on the Mean Machine. The Mean Machine is the name I gave the new computer Christian gave me to replace the first one. The first one was defective. It wouldn't stop calling me Dave. I call the new computer the "Mean Machine" because of how it always insults me when I turn it on.

"Computer," I say, activating it.

"Working," it answers in it's metallic computer voice. "I am the A.W.E.S.O.M.-O 4000... and you're ugly."

"That's mean," I tell it.

"It is?"

"Yes. Say you're sorry."

"Okay, I'm sorry you're ugly."

That computer. What a kidder.

I bring up my emails. Sure enough, there's one from Christian.

Dear Miss Steele,

You are quite simply exquisite. Exquisite, extravagant, and extraordinary. The most exotic, exciting, and exclusive woman I have ever met. You are the most exhilarating female in existence, and I mean that expansively. If I might be a bit more expressively explicit in my exposition, my expertise in women makes me believe that your lack of experience in the art of love and my love of lack in the art of experimentation will expedite any exultation we may exult and expel any excessive exasperations. I think I've exceeded my examination of our exceptional relationship without any exaggeration. And, mind you, I said exceptional, not exceptionable.

Holy crap! I haven't been this confused since the last time I went swimming. When I tried the breast stroke, it took awhile before I finally figured out I could use my arms. Anyway, I immediately start to write.

That's the most beautiful thing I've ever not understood.

And Christian, just as immediately, replies.

Let me explain it this way, Miss Steele: when I was a wee lad, just before puberty, my uncle du jour took me to the barbershop for a haircut as a favor to my mother. As I was waiting for the barber to commence, I sat myself in his chair and happily licked away at my favorite candy. The barber was a friendly chap, and when he walked up, he told me, "My boy, you're going to get hair on your Tootsie Roll."

"That is correct, sir," I told him. "And under my arms, too."

I still don't understand.

Maybe this might help you to understand: once, as I was driving home, I was arrested by a female police officer. She made the mistake of telling me that anything I said would be held against me, and I made the mistake of telling her, "Your breasts."

"So what happened?" I type.

I bought the police force and had her fired. She's working at Hooters now.

"Christian," I write back.

"Yes?"

"It's okay to be rich."

"Excellent. Now, Miss Steele, if you'll excuse me, I have to go excrete some excretory excretions."

That Christian. What a kidder.

But when I think about it...

Heeey… he wasn’t kidding at all. In fact, that was rather rude. Why do I need to know if he’s going to see a man about a horse?

I quickly type...

You can be such a thoughtless jerk, you know that?

…and then, just as quickly, I shut off the computer.

There! I think to myself. That’s telling him.

And then, even more quickly, I think, Osh kosh b'gosh! What have I done? He’s the only guy who’s ever shown any interest in me. Well, there was that homeless man, but he only wanted a bite of my tuna fish sandwich.

And he’s rich, besides. Christian, I mean. Not the homeless guy. Not that I’m in it for the money.

“Yes, you are,” my Unconscious mimes.

I hate mimes.

“No, I’m not,” I cry to no one there. And no one heard at all, not even the chair. I wonder what Neil Diamond is up to?

“Yes, you are.” That’s my Inner Goodness, sticking her nose--like Nosy Joe, the nosiest guy I know--into something that is none of her business.

“No, I’m not,” I tell her, removing her nose from the part of me that is none of her business. “I’m not! I’m Not! I’M NOT!”

I begin to cry. Sob, really. Why are they ganging up on me? The voice in my head that tells me to do those awful things asks me what I’m doing here. No, wait. That’s Kate. In the other room.

“What are you doing here?” she demands to know.

“Why are you making her cry?” she accuses, demandingly.

“That’s MY job, making her cry,” she says in a way that doesn’t let me use a variation of the word “demand.”

I go to the door, and crack it open for a peek.

By gobs, it’s Christian.

“Don’t you touch me!” Kate tells him, pressing her body up against his.

“I’m not touching you,” Christian tells her back.

“Don’t you touch me!” she yells hysterically, grinding up against him.

“I’m not touching you,” Christian says, trying to back away from her.

She grabs one of his hands and lifts it to her breast.

“I said, ‘Don’t Touch Me!’”

“I’m not touching you.”

“Yes, you are. Your hand is on my breast.”

“You’re putting it there.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Well, you’re not pulling it away.”

“That’s because you have a grip like a Master Baiter.”

This makes her stop. She hesitates, confused.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?

“A Master Baiter.”

Christian uses the opportunity to back away from Kate. His hand comes off of her breast with a loud pop! He takes whiff and then wipes it against the leg of his jeans.

“A Master Baiter is a professional baiter of hooks. The kind you hire when you go fishing. They develop quite a grip from handling all of those wriggly little worms. The best kind are Harvard educated. Although you can imagine how hard it is for a worm to receive an education from Harvard.”

Christian uses his words as a smokescreen to make his way to my bedroom door. In one quick motion, he opens it. The door hits me in the eye. The force knocks me backward into the wall against the shelves where I keep my bowling ball collection. They fall, hitting me on the head one at a time.

Boink!

“Ow!”

Boink!

“Ow!”

Boink!

“Ow!”

Boink!

“Ow!”

Boink!

“Ow!”

Fortunately, they bounce off my head and land on my foot, not causing any damage to the floor. Kate would be so mad if we didn’t get our apartment deposit back. She put up almost a whole ten percent of it!

“Ana!” Christian cries out, a note of concern in his voice. “Thank goodness the bowling balls only landed on your head. You could have gotten hurt.”

I pick myself up from the floor. Hopping on one foot, I rub the top of my head gingerly.

“I’m okay, Christian,” I say, and then ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m juggling your bowling balls,” he says, juggling my bowling balls.

“No. I mean, besides that. What are you doing right here. Right now.”

“I was standing just outside your apartment door when you sent me that rather rude email. I had to see what was wrong.”

I immediately fall into his arms.

“Oh, Christian,” I tell him. “You drive me nuts. Why don’t you ever want to spend the night with me?”

“Besides the smell? No reason, I guess. I’m just used to living the life of a loner. A sick, perverted loner.”

“Can’t you see that I need you, Christian? That I want you? That, sometimes in the middle of the night, I would like to wake up, touch you, and know you’re there?”

“Well, I’m here now,” he says, and takes off his cape with a flourish I’ve only ever seen mastered by Bela Lugosi. He hands it to me along with his cane and top hat. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Er… I have a headache.”

“Like I’ve never heard that excuse before.”

“No, I really have a headache. Those bowling balls are hard.”

“That’s okay, my sweet,” he says as he removes his bow tie. “As it turns out, I don’t have any condominiums with me, so we couldn’t, even if we could. I’ll just have to amuse myself with all of these sexy italics.”

He takes off his jacket and shirt. He has a nice chest, in a scrawny kind of way. It’s impeccably shaved, and I like the way it sinks inward like Tom Cruise's. He kicks off his penny loafers. The hole in his sock is perfectly placed. He removes his watch—Wow! A Timex. I can only dream of such luxuries.--then reaches into the back pockets of his jeans. He takes out his wallet, two combs, and a small, shaven rodent.

“That’s Richard, a trained gerbil,” he sheepishly explains. “A gift for an actor friend of mine.”

From his front pockets, he removes a handful of coins, his keys, a bottle cap, some string, and a half-eaten apple. Who knew men kept so much stuff in their pockets? He places it all on my dresser, and then he begins to pull off his jeans.

Hmmm, if he was going to take off his jeans, couldn’t he have just left all that junk in his pockets? He is such a cypher. A Louis Cypher.

We crawl into bed together.

“Let’s spoon,” he tells me. “Lay on your side, turning away from me.”

He is so bossy.

“Is this how you like to cuddle?” I ask him, playfully.

“No, I just don’t want to look at your face.”

I don’t blame him. I don’t like to look at my face, either. Besides, the thought of someone looking at me while I sleep creeps me out.

There’s movement under the cover. Why, that Christian. He’s such a scoundrel. I feel his hand move over my body toward someplace private. And then…

“Hey, hey! That’s an exit, not an entrance.” I tell him.

“Snore!” he snores, sound asleep.

Hey! I gasp. What the fudge? Only I didn't gasp "fudge."

If that’s not Christian, then who… wait a minute… mmm...

My, that gerbil certainly is well-trained.