Jana rolled her eyes and asked, in an unamused tone, “What?”

“You don’t know?”

She sighed defeatedly, “Know what?”

“Derek’s wife used to date me,” I lightly proclaimed.

“You didn’t date her?”

I delivered a canned laugh and said, “I did much more than that.”

“And she left you for him?”

“No,” I replied sharply. “There was … at least a six years between the relationships.”

Jana was confused. “When did you date this girl?” she asked.

“High school,” I said with a grin that acknowledged the situation’s frivolity.

“Oh, uh,” Jana moved uneasily, “I’m not sending flowers to your high school girlfriend the same day her husband lost his job.”

“Flower.”

“I’m not sending her anything,” Jana protested.

Borderline incensed, I accused, “Don’t pretend that you have some moral objection to this – you’re being lazy.”

“I just want to do it right now Shane. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you. Give it a week or two.”

“I can’t. You don’t strike while the iron is warm but cooling. You pound that shit while it’s red hot,” my voice was overly inflamed. I calmed myself and, as reassuringly as possible, said, “My intentions aren’t overtly evil or anything.”

Jana, in a tone dripping with disapproval, snapped back, “You aren’t making a pass at her while her life spirals out of control?”

“Yes,” I replied with a nod.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, that’s what I am doing.”

“That’s pretty damn evil,” Jana quipped.

“I don’t think so.”

“From whose perspective?”

“Anyone’s.”

Jana, annoyed at the direction I had steered the discussion, sighed, “You’re being purposely obtuse Shane.”

“My point isn’t difficult to decipher,” I responded in an overbearing tone, subtly attacking Jana, “If I love this woman, if I think that if I don’t find a way to get back to her, I’ll experience real life again, and if I think I’m the person she wants and needs. If I honestly believe those things, is trying to get her away from Derek evil, or hell, is it noble?”

“Blah, blah, blah, I can’t believe I’m hearing this shit. I’m not doing it. Ok? If you have those feelings, and I highly doubt that you do, they won’t go away in a week. And this just isn’t the right way to go about it.”

“What is the right way to go about stealing someone’s wife?”

“I don’t know?” Jana’s voice was elevated, “Call her? Ask to see her.”

“Irene wouldn’t go for that. She hasn’t gone for that.”

“But she’ll go for this?”

I inhaled deeply and, while exhaling, said as deflated as I’ve ever been, “I hope so.” Sadness rushed through me, I was instantly overwrought, a familiar, though strongly repressed, anxiety tore through me. I twitched and, exasperated, struggled to breathe.

Jana watched in horror – not because my actions were inappropriate given the situation – but because the emotions seemed … authentic.

Irene was the one who got away. And I don’t use that in its traditional idiomatic context. Irene had to escape.

In high school, Irene and I fell for one another. When that happened, for the first time in my life, I experienced the full gambit of real emotions. And that allowed me to empathize with others, which probably seems pretty trivial to a normal person, but when you’ve never experienced it before, empathy is pretty fucking incredible.

So there I was experiencing desire, self-doubt, love, happiness, joy for the first time in my life, and I could share and understand these feelings with others. I mean, my life was absolutely perfect. I felt thoroughly human.

Then, a few months into the relationship, Irene and I had a fight. Not a mere lover’s spat. A knock-down-drag-out, go die in a fucking fire, type event. I had kissed another girl at a party. It was somewhat innocent – the incident had occurred during a party game where kissing your opponent is a potential outcome. But in high school, this was a serious offense. So we fought and, while screaming and throwing things at each other, I realized that I had, of all the new emotions I had recently experienced, never enjoyed any of them as much the one I felt when my treasured relationship was being torn from my grasp. It was raw and consuming. I didn’t know up from down, left from right – and I loved every moment of it.

We eventually made up, but the relief felt in actually saving the relationship wasn’t close to the same level as that emotion I felt while fighting for it. All I wanted in the world was to get that raw, terrifying, desperation feeling back.

So, like any good addict, I got the feeling back. Then I got it again. And again. And again.

I caused issue after issue in the relationship. And because Irene truly loved me, and I her, and I was always careful not to do anything terrible enough to destroy the relationship, we always found a way to work it out. It was a twisted carousel of emotional pain, and it was perfect.

Unfortunately, her family didn’t like what was happening to their daughter. They unfairly intervened and, because I was thousands of miles away at a different university, Irene got off the carousel.

But since then, she’s been my emotional well, the person for whom I spend a few weeks every year desperately pining. We’ve shared a romantic rendezvous or three in the years since the breakup. I very nearly had her again during the summer between undergrad and law school. But recently, my attempts to regain her affection have been largely ignored. After all, she’s now married to Derek, a genuine, good guy who’s been drifting in and out of my (and apparently Irene’s) social circle since junior high.

But this time I smelled blood. Irene took great pride in Derek’s career. Derek had been, at one point, a prized attorney in the firm, undoubtedly considered more likely than me to make partner. Unfortunately for Derek, despite his general charisma, he bombed his first live court appearance. Just like that, he was done. With his confidence shattered, he became a constantly insecure and weak shell of his former self. For months before he was canned, everyone assumed he would preemptively resign and try to con another firm to take him on. Now that he had terminated on his resume, he was headed into a special kind of hell – shitlaw.

As there was a high likelihood that my attempts to contact Irene would fail, I had never clued anyone else in on the plot, so as to protect my bulletproof image. Why I had decided to include Jana on the matter is something I still don’t fully comprehend. My read on Jana was all over the place.

“Fine,” Jana finally said with a shrug, recognizing that she had underestimated the importance of what I had asked. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

I forced a smile and Jana left the room.

“Shut the door,” I barked once she was out of sight.

I spent the next two hours aimlessly wondering through the firm’s intranet, noting any case that might become even remotely interesting. After growing bored, but still needing to make sure I was billing my time to a client file, I browsed to the “evidence” folder attached to a civil embezzlement case we had recently taken. In the case, an executive had used his employer’s money to fund a number of outrageous, hedonistic retreats. There were probably two thousand candid photographs of the events dumped in the evidence folder, all depicting a variety of illicit acts. I had already billed seven or eight hours to the case.

Jana eventually returned, just as my stomach began to beckon for lunch. As she entered without a knock, I had to snap close the photo open on my computer. Jana carried a red folder.

“This is all the information you need for tonight.” Jana slid the folder towards me on the desk, and continued, “Address, map, contact numbers. I also printed all of the pages from the fraternity’s website and facebook.”

“Good.”

“And that other thing is progressing well. I got a few hundred in petty cash from Danni, she liked the idea of sending something.”

I laughed, “Great … let me have it.”

Jana hesitated and looked longingly at the pocket on the side of her skirt. “All of it?” she asked.

A bit confused, I offered, “It’s supposed to pay for Irene’s stuff right?”

“Right, I know … I know. But I had to go and ask for it and everything.” Jana was pouting, her bottom lip growing by the second.

“You’re terrible!”

“Can I just keep a hundred?”

“You know you could have kept it all right?” I asked playfully, finding the situation somewhat charming.

“That occurs to me now,” Jana said with a pout-filled frown.

“Just give it all to me.”

She reluctantly pulled out a small fold of money from her pocket and sat it on the far edge of my desk, forcing me to lean forward from my chair to reach it.

“And this is all of it?” I asked while skeptically counting the three one-hundred dollar bills.

“Yes,” she huffed.

I pulled a hundred off the top and tossed the other two bills back towards the end of the desk. “Keep it.”

A large grin filled Jana’s face as she put the money in her pocket. The money secure, she asked suggestively, “Do you need anything before I go to lunch?”

“A nap.”

“You do look awful,” Jana teased.

“What time am I supposed to be there?”

Jana smiled nervously and said, “Soon. It’s in the packet.”

“How soon?”

“I think he’s expecting you around two.”

“Who is?”

“Trevor Paxson, the client. All the information’s in there.” She pointed at the folder.

I looked at my watch, it was a bit past twelve. I left my Adderall in the bathroom and I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned that nap.

“I guess I need to get going.”

Jana didn’t respond and watched silently as I found my glasses, keys, phone, took the folder from the desk and grabbed my coat and bag out of the armoire. As I stepped into the hall, Jana said, “Wait.”

I turned around and Jana walked within a few inches. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” she whispered.

I moved slightly, an almost indecipherable nod, and she leaned forward and gave both of my lips a quick peck. “Have fun with the kids,” she said, mocking my assignment.

I smirked, turned, and left my office. The floor was now quiet and nearly deserted; a few staff members at their desks eating lunch. As the elevator arrived, I remembered something important. I apologized to the woman in the elevator whose trip I had interrupted and ran back towards my office, slamming the door as I entered. Jana was still there, sitting in my desk chair.

“What’d you forget?” she asked.

“I need you step out for a second,” I beckoned.

“Why?” she asked, insulted by the thought.

“It’s kind of personal,” I twitched and my gaze darted to the bottom of my desk.

“Bottom-right drawer personal?”

Jana scowled and kicked the bottom drawer on the right side of my desk. The drawer to which only I had the key; the drawer that contained a couple bottles of Basil Hayden’s, a custom, handblown shot glass, a can of Barbasol, and a leather toiletry bag.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied poorly.

“You take a shot before you write anything. You think it steadies your nerves. There’s bourbon in there.”

I laughed, somewhat relieved, “You caught me, get up, get out.”

Jana stood, walked passed me, and stood in the doorway. “You’re not going to offer me a drink?”

“No,” I answered. “Please shut the door.”

Jana stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” I said unamused. I leaned forward with my key positioned to unlock the drawer.

“I don’t know what you meant, but I do know that you wouldn’t be caught dead using Barbasol.”

I froze, the key stopping short of its hole. I couldn’t fathom how she’d ever seen that can. No one had. I looked up, she caught my eyes and winked.

“So you want a shot then?” I offered politely, backpedaling as quickly as possible.

“Yes …” Jana let her answer hang and walked forward along my desk. “And I want you to show me how to open that can.”

Now, as you are acutely aware, Jana and my relationship was one of mutually assured destruction. If the firm discovered what we had been doing together, there wouldn’t be an investigation, neither of us would get preferential treatment, we would both be instantly terminated and shown the door. To keep our jobs, neither of us could ever complain to the firm about anything the other did, for fear that the relationship would come out.

But I wasn’t comfortable with anyone, including Jana, knowing that I had, at that very moment, seven grams of cocaine, two eight balls, stuffed inside a fake can of Barbasol, locked in the bottom-right drawer of my desk. And nagging me further, rooted in my fear that I had stumbled into a full-blown coke addiction, was the concern that Jana would find out that it wasn’t a shot that I used to help with my assignments, but a line of somewhat clean cocaine instead.

I twitched and dove into a hastily thought out cover story.”The shaving cream can? That’s a can that I borrowed from Wilmer Drauden two years ago. I had been here for a few days working on a big trademark case, the CDI case, when I ran out of shaving cream. We had a hearing that day so I borrowed it from Drauden. It was practically empty when I borrowed it and he let me keep it. I don’t think there’s anything left in it, but I keep it as a memento. That was the first jury trial where I got to sit at counsel table.”

Jana released an ambiguous, “Oh Jesus.”

I nodded, presuming victory.

“I thought it was just a place you hid some money,” she continued, “You must have pot in there or something.” She stepped forward and reached for the key.

I pulled the key back, sighed and said, “Lock the door.” Suddenly, surrender seemed like the best choice.

With the office door locked, I used the key to open the drawer. I pulled out a bottle of bourbon and the Barbasol can. My inappropriately dressed secretary watched in expectant awe. I took a large swig of the bourbon and passed it forward. I then grabbed the Barbasol can and used my thumb to unscrew the hidden bottom on the can.

Two tightly wrapped baggies fell onto my lap. Jana squinted and asked, “What is it?”

I explained the substance and repeatedly, without an ounce of persuasion, claimed that I was not a regular user and, additionally, that the cocaine belonged to an unnamed friend. Jana didn’t seem to care what I said and, strangely enough, didn’t seem interested in using. She just sort of gazed into the wall, as though she was trying to figure something out. After a short period, I put the baggies back in the Barbasol can and put the can in my brief bag.

The movement snapped Jana back to Earth and, in overt disappointment, she asked, “You’re not going to do any?”

“No,” I shook my head, “I came back for a shot of bourbon.”

“Then why are you taking it with you?” Jana asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel comfortable with you knowing about this. Seems prudent to move it.”

“You’re being dramatic Shane. And insulting! I could have opened that can whenever I wanted,” Jana declared.

Reminded of her going into my locked drawer, I insisted, “And I want whatever you used to open the drawer.”

Jana looked confused for a second and then laughed, “I just used a paper clip Shane. It’s an old desk. Did you really think your stuff was locked up?”

I doubted what she was saying, but there wasn’t much of any reason to contend the point. I put the bourbon back in the drawer and, perhaps uselessly, locked it. I stood up and walked to the door. As I turned the knob to exit my office, Jana, whose issues with me walking away from her irritated or frustrated should be clear by now, stopped me.

“Wait Shane, you don’t want to do just a little?”

Of course I did. “I really have to go,” I resisted.

“Come on,” Jana said as she hopped onto my desk. “You don’t want to … snort it … off-” Jana looked down and searched her body for an appropriate site, “off my thigh?” She pulled her skirt up along her right leg, until the whole leg and her panties were exposed. There was a small wet spot in lower center of her panties, presumably from our earlier encounter.

“I’m really pretty uncomfortable right now. I-” My face contracted hard into a twitch; I felt a vague pain at the back of my head. “I don’t understand what you’re doing today Jana, I don’t get your motivations, I’m just … lost.”

Jana smirked, “I don’t really know what I’m doing right now either Shane. You’ve been weird today … well, weird for you. You came in drunk after you broke up with your girlfriend, and now you’re talking about some girl you apparently love or some shit. And you weren’t very happy about your bonus. And your spazzing out all over the place, twitching. So I’m kind of throwing everything at you to see what sticks. I just want you to snap out of it. I don’t like having to worry about you-”

“Your ass,” I interrupted.

“What?”

I took a breath and, very deliberately, said, “I want to snort cocaine off of your ass.”

“And that will help you be normal?”

I shrugged; Jana nodded, lied down, turned over, and pulled her skirt above her ass, which was left naked by her thong. I sat my bag on one of the two client chairs in my office, pulled out the can, undid the false bottom and caught the baggies as they fell. I sat both on the desk beside Jana and opened one, and pulled a pinch out.

“Don’t move,” I begged as I sat the pile of coke on her ass. Her ass, or any ass for that matter, is a terrible place from which to do coke. It was extremely difficult to make a proper line and, inevitably, some fell into her crack, which caused me great irritation. Once I had something to work with, I pulled the hundred from my pocket and rolled it tight.

“Wait,” Jana said, “I think I want to-”

With my finger pushing my left nostril shut, my right hand holding Jana against the desk, I moved the bill above the coke and snorted as hard as I could. It stung profusely. I rubbed my nose until the pain subsided.

Jana, awkwardly looking back from her spot on the desk, said, “I was trying say, I think I want to try some.”

“Off my ass?” I joked.

“No but, will you do it for me? Whatever needs to be done?”

I grabbed the open bag next to her and poured a small amount onto the desk. Recognizing that she could move again, Jana rolled off the desk onto her feet and, notable to someone going through the early stages of a mild postsynaptic high, her skirt fell perfectly into place. I removed a business card from the holder in my bag and used it make the line. It was small but, given the situation, I felt it appropriate.

I tried to hand her the hundred dollar bill I used but she refused and said proudly, “I have my own.”

I smiled and she moved so that she was standing about the line. “I just snort it up?”

“Cover the unused nostril.”

She put her finger over her left nostril and looked to me for approval, I nodded. She then leaned forward and placed the bill at one end of the line.

She inhaled and, just before she made it to the end of the line, Jana dropped the bill and stood straight up. With her face looking toward the ceiling, she screamed, “Ow!”

I finished what she left on the desk and brushed it clean.

“I think I should have lost my mind a long time,” I said as I grabbed my bag, “I like you more like this.”

We shared a brief, uneasy smile – then I unlocked the door and exited my office, to which I wouldn’t return for nearly a week.

Now, before I attempt to describe Jana’s reaction, it’s important to briefly emphasize and explore my emotional numbness. Though I was happy with my bonus, in the sense that I found it appropriate, the money was not going to alter the course of my life in any measurable way – so I wasn’t going through any physical manifestation of joy. Success is like any other drug I suppose. When you start, when you are a child, not shitting your pants is grounds for celebration. But as you stack success on success, from toilet use to numerous multi-million dollar contingency victories, until your life is merely one success after another, like mine, you come to the point that even incredible successes are commonplace.

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A slight, irritated surprise flashed across her face and she said, “How?”

Jana already knew the answer – this wasn’t the first time this same scenario had played out. “I told her.”

“I liked her,” she replied instantly and then sighed. “You’re such a coward.”

Momentarily thoughtful, because I wanted the moment to be as such, I nodded and said, “Yeah.”

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I was sitting at my small nook table in boxers and an undershirt eating breakfast. There were two plates on the table’ two over-medium eggs and two slices of wheat toast on each. I was staring out the wall of windows that line my loft, watching nothing in particular.

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Note: This is an archived short story. See here.

When your girlfriend asks you to take a lie detector test, the relationship is likely already kaput. If you lied about whatever she thinks you lied about, and it takes a lie detector to get the truth out, there will be no forgiveness. And if, by some stroke of luck, you pass the test, her extreme lack of trust forces you to end the relationship.

So when Lindsey asked me to take a polygraph, I acquiesced knowing full well that I would be terminating the relationship immediately after the test, regardless of its result.

The controversy arose from my purported sleeping with Lindsey’s mortal enemy, an exceedingly normal looking Jewish girl who, despite said blandness, always found herself to be the most attractive girl in the room. When I slept the enemy, and I did sleep with her, Lindsey and I were broken up – meaning that the rift wasn’t caused by my dick falling into a foreign vagina, but rather it was caused by my dick falling into the wrong vagina.

The actual event, though mostly irrelevant for this discussion, was embarrassingly calculated. Neither the enemy nor I being particularly attracted to one another, it was understood that our coitus owed primarily to our mutual hatred of Lindsey. The problem arose when, a week after that most unfortunate fuck, as often happens, I was overcome by a large desire to rekindle my relationship with Lindsey.

And we dated for a month in relative bliss, the break allowing us to rekindle the relationship with the heat of a newborn union. Unfortunately and unsurprisingly, the first time we encountered the enemy after our reconciliation though, the bliss met an abrupt death.

We were at an outdoor dinner party. The hosts, wanting to show off their recently landscaped backyard, invited every member of their extended social circle, which obviously encompassed the three major players in this story. During the party, though we did an admirable job avoiding direct contact with the enemy, the treacherous girl began casually informing the other guests, without tact or grace, that she and I had fucked. Eventually, an obscure third party informed Lindsey of the enemy’s message.

Lindsey, hoping to quickly vanquish any thought of the enemy and I’s copulation, asked me about the purported fuck, “Shane – did you and Mortal Enemy sleep together?”

Pretending to be offended by the mere thought, I confidently and firmly denied the allegations and called the enemy a “crazy bitch.”

Understandably concerned about the consequences of remaining at the party, I said, “Lindsey, this party sucks. Let’s go to the Melting Pot. We’ll get dessert and a bottle of wine.” The Melting Pot being Lindsey’s favorite dessert spot, she jumped at the opportunity and we headed for the exit.

As we reached the iron gate separating us from freedom, the enemy made her move. “Wait Shane!” she yelled from the other side of the yard, catching the attention of the entire party, “I have something of yours.” Like George Barnes before me, I knew the approaching menace had me outmaneuvered; I merely smiled and calmly awaited the coming storm.

The enemy, now standing before us, reached into her purse and removed a pink pocket square, which would have been easily dismissible, were my initials not carefully embroidered along the top-right corner. As quickly as possible, I snatched the silk and, without addressing the enemy, pushed Lindsey through the gate.

Over the following week, I verbally hypothesized thousands of scenarios in which the enemy could have received the pocket square that did not involve my getting naked in her bedroom. Combined with the rumors though, that silk square kept Lindsey from believing any of my lies, no matter how well delivered. At some point, after hours of internet research, she decided that the only way to know the truth was to have me tested by a polygraph machine.

As mentioned earlier, it was at this time that I realized the relationship was over. Nevertheless, I felt it imprudent to pass up the opportunity to test my lying abilities against a professional lie detector. So Lindsey made an appointment with a company that specializes in employment polygraph examinations, and I began to force myself to believe that I hadn’t slept with the enemy.

The morning of the exam, before Lindsey arrived to pick me up, and despite the pamphlet from the service warning against such activities, I consumed a large glass of twenty-one year old Macallan. I figured that, though I had no research or evidence to support the theory, any effects derived from the alcohol would be to my benefit when taking a polygraph.

The ride over to the office was surprisingly amiable. Lindsey even insinuated that she might have been willing to call the whole thing off and attempt to salvage the relationship. Of course, by that point, I was far more infatuated with trying to trick a lie detector than I was with Lindsey.

The polygraph office was posh; there was a giant cichlid tank in the wall separating the reception from the testing offices. We waited a few minutes before our tester, Dan, came out, introduced himself, and led us down a hallway into a large, almost barren room. In the middle of the room, there were three chairs around a table, where a computer and polygraph machine sat.

Dan asked me to sit in the far seat, while he and Lindsey sat next to each other on the other side of the table. Before hooking me up to the machine, Dan asked for my driver’s license and copied down the listed information – and though he knew exactly why I was there, we briefly discussed why I thought I was being polygraphed.

Finally, with the formalities dismissed, he stood, walked around the table, and asked me to also stand so that he could wrap around the chest monitor. He then put a clip on my right index finger, a blood pressure type wrap around my left arm, and asked me to sit down.

He walked back around the table, fiddled with the computer for a moment and asked, “Are you comfortable?”

I am rarely authentically anxious, and this was not one of those few cases, but I was far from comfortable. “Seriously?” I quipped, looking to Lindsey with a smirk.

“Sorry,” he said with a forced laugh, “Let’s begin. For the next eight questions, I want you to answer six truthfully and lie twice. I have the correct answers in front of me.” He briefly held up a sheet full of my information, much of it copied from my driver’s license. “Is your name Shane Thompson?”

I inhaled deeply and held my breath. “Yes,” I said as I exhaled.

“Is the light on this room?”

I Inhaled, held my breath, and exhaled. “Yes.”

My strategy was to focus more on my breathing than the question, altering my answer patterns as often as possible.

“Are you six feet tall?”

I inhaled and held my breath. “Yes.” Though my driver’s license says as much, I actually only five-eleven. It was a lie that would be labeled as truth; something that seemingly boded well for my efforts. I swelled with pride, then quickly grew paranoid that the pride would be reflected on the machine in a negative way. I exhaled.

“Are you sitting down?”

While inhaling, in a raspy voice, I said, “Yes.” I held the breath for a moment and then exhaled.

“Is the person next to me named Lindsey?”

I inhaled and held my breath for as long as possible before exhaling and saying, “No.” This was the first of my two forced lies, an answer he would study carefully. When I delivered it, I told myself that her name was Lauren, trying desperately to mask the lie.

“Do you own a television?”

I inhaled, held it for a short time, and exhaled. “Yes.”

“Are you wearing blue jeans?”

While inhaling, I said, “Yes.” The second of my two forced lies; I was wearing a pair of Marc Jacobs trousers. I was so insulted by the question, I could not force myself to attempt any deception. I immediately exhaled.

“Did you ride in a car this morning?”

I inhaled, said, “Yes”, while holding my breath, then exhaled.

Dan adjusted his seat and began typing on the keyboard. After a minute, he said, “Ok great. Those were the baseline questions that I will work from later. From this point on, I am going to ask questions that Lindsey helped me write pertaining to the situation we discussed earlier. If you need extra time to answer, don’t worry, it will not affect the test. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

“Ok. Have you ever met Mortal Enemy?”

I decided, since all of the baseline questions were tainted with modified breathing, I would abandon the breathing and only focus, from that point forward, on trying my best to be internally unsure with every answer. As I flooded my mind with doubts about even knowing the enemy, I answered, “Yes.”

“And have you ever ridden in Mortal Enemy’s car?”

I had ridden in her car; I tried to convince myself that the car belonged to her father. “No.”

“Did you graduate from college?”

Caught off-guard, which was assuredly Dan’s intention, I did not take the time to focus on deception. “Yes.”

“Do you find Mortal Enemy sexually attractive?”

I smiled. As referenced earlier, though I had actually sex with mortal enemy, I did not find her sexually attractive. Proudly and without hesitation, I answered, “No.”

“Do you believe that you will be married in five years?”

I shot a scornful look to Lindsey, upset at the question. Legitimately unsure of my actual answer, but still looking Lindsey in the eyes, I said, “No.”

She winced.

“Have you ever consumed alcohol?”

I hesitated before answering. For the first time since sitting down, I doubted whether I was going to beat the polygraph. The examiner, using these obvious questions to keep me off guard, seemed aware of every deception I threw at him. At that moment, I decided to abandon all of my complex strategies, preferring instead to lie on every question from that point forward. “No.” I smiled at Lindsey, who looked at me with wide, confused eyes.

“Have you ever been inside Mortal Enemy’s home?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had sexual relations with Mortal Enemy?”

“No.”

“Other than lies you’ve told today, have you ever lied to Lindsey?”

“No.”

Lindsey, knowing that I had lied to her in the past, and that I knew she knew I lied, began shaking her head.

“If you knew you wouldn’t get caught, would you have sexual relations with Mortal Enemy?”

“No.”

“Have you ever ridden in an elevator?”

“No.” I gave the answer before thinking about the question. After a moment of silence, Lindsey and Dan looked at each other quizzically. I began laughing.

“During this polygraph examination, have you tried to deceive me?”

“No.” Though I tried in earnest to stop, I was still laughing.

“Have you ever seen Mortal Enemy naked?”

“No.”

Lindsey teared up, fully cognizant that I was no longer taking the test seriously. I bit my bottom lip and used pain to stop laughing. The situation growing uncomfortable, Dan hurried the pace.

“Did you accidentally leave your pocket square with Mortal Enemy?”

“No.”

“While you were broken up with Lindsey, did you have sexual relations with anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever flirted with Mortal Enemy?”

“No.”

“Do you work in an office?”

“No.”

“Other than the times I asked you to lie, have you lied during this examination?”

“No.”

And with that, Dan stood up, quickly walked around the table, and removed the polygraph attachments. Lindsey, no longer crying, wiped under her eyes with both index fingers, trying in vain to fix her smeared makeup. I smiled sincerely, hoping that the pleasantry might prevent any potential, immediate tearful relapse.

Dan walked back around the table and sat down at his computer, where he spent a few minutes pounding away at the keyboard. Eventually, he opened up a program that displayed a full screen copy of my polygraph reading. He scrolled through, marking random spots with mouse clicks, and occasionally sighing. When he reached the end, he said:

“Well, I have good and bad news. The control questions resulted in a very tight map. The difference in the readings between Shane’s lies and truths were minimal. In the obvious questions, such as ‘Have you ever ridden in an elevator’ – I can give you definitive answers. But…” He paused and signed, “in every question relating to Mortal Enemy, I’m afraid the results are inconclusive.”

Lindsey hung her head and began slowly nodding. “So it’s impossible to know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t sign my name to this, but I think Shane was being honest in those answers, and I think, though I’m not supposed to say things like this, the test leans that way. It’s just not conclusive.

I smiled vaguely, unsure if Dan was fishing for a tip, or maybe even trying to pay it forward to another guy, hoping the karma gods would relieve him of his past indiscretions. Regardless, Lindsey and I then thanked him and exited the room.

At the front of the office, Lindsey settled her tab and received a folder containing the worthless test results. Afterwards, we left the office and, as we waited for the elevator, Lindsey reached for my hand. Receptive, I exposed my palm and allowed her to latch on.

She said with a smile, “Shane, I’m sorry I made you do this. If it means anything, I don’t care about it anymore.”

I looked off to the side, building the courage required to look into Lindsey’s eyes. Once ready, I turned back towards her, pulled her close and cradled her head as we kissed. After a few seconds, I separated our lips and gazed into her eyes and stole one final glimpse of her love before saying, without concern, malice, or anger:

“I fucked her.”

First thing I want to get to are some numbers things – when I first started this blog, going all the way back to november, I weighed about 336 pounds. As of this morning I am 281. Not too shabby.
I think I will update the weight loss thing more from here out, but I will also put in some of my stock positions. *DISCLAIMER* Please you fools don’t consider this advice. Consult a fucking professional before you do anything with any appreciable amount of money, I am not responsible for your stupid financial desicions. But then again, we all went to law school and are in debt up to our eyeballs so hey!

If you haven’t noticed the market has shit the bed the past few weeks. The latest stock bubble is crashing, and we are in the midst of a correction. Its the faux recovery personified: stock prices rise for no particular reason while unemployment stays high. There are no jobs, no real creation, just paper being pushed back and forth while being propped up by our corrupt government/banking industry. Im starting to sound more like Phil Grande every fucking day but hey we’re all bitter old men inside.

So right now I am beating shit out of SDS but I think the correction is probably more than halfway there. I’m also shorting IWM a bit as well. I think these trends should hold into next week, then hopefully I can go long on a few things and make some money on the way back up.

So onto life in general. Well, I can add photos later. The 40 year old milf and I had a torrid couple of weeks right before I went up North to see the old lady. The milf was a little nuts, but damn she was a minx in the sack, and riding bareback was a nice change as opposed to the last 7 years. When she finally told me she couldn’t do it anymore, as she was falling in love with me and knew I couldn’t reciprocate, I was at first a little upset; the gravy train had come to a halt. Worse yet my hot lesbian roommate didn’t get to meet her. Oh well.

But I learned something from her. First, I realized that if I set my mind to something I can make it happen. I can attractive enough to hit on a woman and pick her up and fuck her. Not something i plan on doing a lot of, but it’s knowing that it’s possible that is an ego stroke. The weight loss and the jiujitsu and me being able to pick up women is a real pick me up when I think about life in the toilet. Second, I realized that I deserve better than I am getting. The milf was a little kooky, but she was very loving and very sexually attentive and receptive, almost to the point of submissivenes. I am not Mr. dom/sub, I won’t go down that whips chains shit, or the psychological controlling shit like in the ponderously wierd Secretary (which features James Spader jerking off onto a chicks ass) but I can dig being in the driver’s seat a bit. I also do enjoy well performed fellatio, it is so choice. But in general it was nice to feel really desired by a woman which from what I thought was not something unusual.

But its different when you slide your spent member out of one woman one night, and then fly away to see a different woman the next day who is a complete 180 from the previously freshly fucked femme. I love the woman up north, but she can be a complete pill. This past weekend was no exception, and 2200 later I certainly was beginning to get a little ticked. I’ll pick this up later.