Lego, Star Wars and the Rebellion in My Livingroom

My son is obsessed with Star Wars and he's obsessed with Lego. He's addicted to them both so, when he found out about Star Wars Lego, it was like a junkie learning about speedballs for the first time.

He's played the Wii game. Finished all the levels. Now he's replaying them as all the different characters. He also learned that you can buy Lego kits to make various Star Wars scenes and vehicles. He's been nagging me for a Millenium Falcon and a Death Star. No way in hell am I spending close to a grand on either one. More so since I always end up doing all the construction as he watches tv and ignores my pleas for assistance.

I know my dad wants to buy one of them for him and make it a summer project that they will work on. So, I figured, perhaps it was time to start the boy out on some of the smaller, easier kits. I picked up a couple of little star wars kits and some super hero kits and he, and I, put them together. Together. It was a blast. Of course, several hours after completion, they had fallen apart. He plays rough with his toys. It kills me when I spend money on something and see him playing with a broken down version of that toy after only a week.

Anyway, I took him to his baseball game on Saturday and he was incredible. Smoking line drives when he was at bat and sucking up balls like an all star in the field. He has his own little mantra on the field: Nothing Gets Past Me. Fucking brilliant.

Anyway, he was in such good spirits after the game that he agreed to go belt shopping with me, in exchange for a stop at a toy story. I complied and, once there, he made a beeline for the lego section. The kits he wanted were all way too complex for him and the easier ones were limited to the ones he had so we agreed to pick up Luke Skywalker's X-Wing and he agreed to work on it with me.

We picked up a belt, grabbed some lunch and headed home. He immediately tore open the box and opened each of the plastic bags housing the 437 pieces. Yes, that's right, 437 pieces. He separated them into piles of matching pieces and then he set out building the characters it came with. Luke, Leia, Chewbacca, Han Solo, C3P0, R2D2 and Wedge Antilles. Then he picked them all up and said he was going to play with them while I did my part, building the ship.

I explained that this was a father and son project and, after a bit of arguing, he begrudgingly sat next to me, helping me locate the pieces and snapping them in place.

It took us about two hours to finish. It was pretty fucking cool. The wings move open and closed by turning a little knob in the back of the ship. R2 fits in the back. Luke can sit in the cockpit. There's even a secret cargo hold for his light saber.

My son immediately grabbed all the other ships, characters, figures, books etc on the subject of star wars and a massive battle between the rebellion and the empire took over my living room. There were even a few super heroes in the mix, presumably helping the rebellion. The battle waged on, taking a break for dinner and then, it started right up again.

My wife and I went out to dinner, leaving my kids, and the intergalactic battle, in the capable hands of the sitter.

We returned home shortly before midnight to a battlefield at rest. There were figures on the furniture, on the window ledge, on the coffee table, on the tv and there was even one character hanging on the lip of the fish tank.

The sitter told us how wonderful the kids were, how they went to be early, on their own and how my son was distraught because his new ship broke.

I asked where it was and she pointed to the coffee table.

The X-Wing had lost an engine and a wing has popped loose.

So, I pick up the craft and try to replace the wing. This was a mistake. I had several drinks and was in no condition to be messing around with the lego ship.

By the time I gave up, all four wings were now off the craft.

My son woke up around 7 the next morning and came into my bedroom in tears. I told him that the battle waged on well after he had gone to sleep but he shouldn't worry. Luke and R2 escaped and the rebellion managed to take the ship, and all the broken parts back to their garage and a master mechanic would fix the craft.

So, my morning consisted of coffee, aspirin for the raging hangover and my shaky fingers taking the entire craft apart. Piece by piece.

I then went and picked up some glue. Not the elmers kind. No, I grabbed some cyanoacrylate. High end, fast drying, krazy glue type stuff.

My wife took my daughter to a birthday party and left us to the rebuilding of the X-Wing.

At first it was a breeze. Then I got a bit cocky. I was using more glue than necessary. Snapping pieces on far to fast and my son comes over and goes to pick up a piece to help and I snapped, yelling "no, don't touch it, it's very strong glue, I don't want you to get it stuck on your skin."

He says he'll be careful. I tell him it's best if he helps me locate the pieces. He does.

I'm holding a wing in my left hand, I grab the glue in my right, ready to put a few drops onto the next addition to the wing when I realize said wing is now a part of me. That's right, three fingers glued to the wing. I explain what happened to my son. He looks at my hand, tries pulling the pieces, I explain that the only way to remove it is with rubbing alcohol and we need to go to the store. We get dressed and headed out, my lego hand in my pocket, hiding it from potentially mocking eyes.

We head into the store and my son asks if this means I'm turning into a good guy or a bad guy. I ask him what he means and he says "Spiderman was bit by a spider and now he's half spider, sandman was half sand, electro is half electric and I am half lego."

He asks if I am good or bad. I tell him I am good and nobody can know that his daddy is Legoman.

He promises it will be our little secret. Then he tells me he still loves me, even if I am made of lego.

Paying for the alcohol was no easy task, with one hand attached to a wing but we managed to get it done and then we headed home. I soaked my hand for a good 20 minutes before the wing came loose. So did all the other pieces and I was back to rebuilding the damned wing, this time with much more caution.

The X-wing was completed (again) and the rebellion, led by Luke Skywalker and his X-Wing, were back battling the Empire before dinner.

Lack of Motivation

I can't get a thing done. It's normal, post tax hell, for me to be restless, bored at work and unable to accomplish the ost menial tasks. I spent a whole week looking at the same piece of paper. I've taken to finding reasons to leave the office so I can go outside and enjoy the warm weather. I'll go down for soda and intentionally not hit the bank so I have a reason to leave in 20 minutes. I've tried playing games. I've tried surfing for porn.

Nothing piques my interest.

I need a vacation. Clear the head, get my shit together and get back to work.

The Facts of Life

The weather is (was) warmer and that brought out the best, and worst, of New York City. The short skirts, the shorter shorts, the low cut tops, the barely there tank tops. They were all taken out of the mothballs and worn. And it got me thinking. It seems that some folks simply don't understand the facts of life. I'm not talking about sex here, no, I'm talking about those basic facts that everyone should know, and understand.

for example.

Fact 1. Those really long nails are disgusting. That's right women. If your finger nails are inches long, you look like a whore. If they're so long that they curve and you can't do anything without having to reposition your hands to avoid breaking them, you're nothing more than an idiot whore. And if you waste your hard earned whore dollars getting them painted with streaks and sparkles and stars? Trailer Park Whore. It's really that simple. There's not a guy out there who sees you, with your nails that are longer than a cock, painted with stars and moons and thinks "classy lady, I should see if she wants to get a cup of coffee." No, he's got his hand in his pocket so he can see if he has enough quarters and dimes for a blow job.

Fact 2. If you're fat, dress appropriately. You want to show off some skin, do it in the privacy of your own home. When your back is so fat you have extra ass cheeks, you should wear a tent, not a form fitting shirt that resides above the second roll of blubber below your tits.

Fact 3. If you don't have the legs for it, don't wear short skirts or short shorts. Here's the thing. When fat women show off their legs and jam their pigs knuckles into some fuck me pumps, all that happens is men see your legs and those shoes and they are immediately reminded of Miss Piggy at a formal. No joke. Take a peek at a pigs leg and hoof and then check out a fat broad in a short skirt and heels. Same fucking thing.

Fact 3a. Do not wear fish nets or any of the other fashionable lacy hose/stockings. This is an addendum to the above. If you've got the legs for it, by all means, wear them but, if your flesh oozes through the lace or net, stop. Throw them out. Your legs will look like some perverted play-doh porn for chubbie chasers. Nobody wants to see that.

Fact 4. No belt clips or ear pieces for your cell phone. You look like a star trek wannabe. I don't care how hot you might be, if you have a phone clipped to your belt or an ear piece hanging on your melon, you look like an idiot. In the car, when nobody can see you, and it is required, I don't care if you wear two. On the street? Ditch it.

Fact 5. When talking on your cell in public, remember, it's a fucking phone call that nobody else cares about. Nobody gives a shit if you got blown last night or if some guy went down on you or your boyfriend's a prick or you made some money in the market. Nobody gives a shit about you, except, possibly, the person you're talking to so keep it the fuck down. If we wanted to know more about your life, we'd give you a reality show, call it Real Jackasses of the City and 3 people would watch it. You, the moron on the other end of the phone and the one loser impressed by your new found "celebrity."

Fact 6. Guys think your Ugg boots are awful. Not only do they destroy the image of a nice pair of legs, we know how fucking hot your feet must get and, now that it's spring, it's time to mothball them until the winter. I actually prefer a fat broad in a short skirt, fishnets and heels to a supermodel in a skirt or shorts and uggs. Why? Because I know that, when taking off her clothes, her feet will be sweaty and the stench from the boots and her feet will be enough to stop a herd of elephants in their tracks.

Fact 7. Have a Good One. What the fuck does this even mean? If I run into you as I'm heading for the shitter, are you telling me to enjoy my dump? If I tell you to "have a good one" as you head over to your ob-gyn, am I suggesting you get a good speculum? It's a stupid fucking expression. Stop using it.

Fact 8. If you email someone, and you leave them a voicemail, wait for their fucking response. We are so wired to everything these days that you can be sure at least one of the the voicemails, texts, tweets, emails, smoke signals and facebook postings has been seen. If we haven't responded yet, there's a reason so stop fucking adding to the shit we have to sift through before we can get back to you. If you haven't heard back yet, assume that the person you want to talk to is busy, or being held hostage by a gang of angry gypsies, or fell into a coma, is dead or simply doesn't want to talk to you. If they do, they'll get back to you.

That's it for now. I'm sure I'll find more and I'll add to them as I do. If you have any facts of life to add, let me know.

City of Dead

I'm sitting high atop the city. In the distance, the blue black sea stretches out across the horizon. A ball of tie dyed colors stretches up from the water, reds, oranges and yellows bleeding out from a fiery white center.

It's a gorgeous view.

Of course, I'm not looking at it. I'm looking down. 20 floors down. At the concrete below.

The dead are walking the earth. They don't see out human flesh. They aren't after brains. They shuffle along, feet dragging, as they move about the city. They mumble and moan, their stare, glassy and lifeless. They might say something to you. They might not. Their arms leaden and limp at their sides. Their legs feel like 500 pound sacks of grain. Moving them, walking, is a chore. Their eyelids droop, their black, dilated pupils, stare down at the pavement as they slowly wend their way through the crowded, shuffling throngs of people.

If you bump into the walking dead, their body will absorb the hit, turning them, spinning them but that's about it. They won't turn on you, shredding your skin, tearing your limbs off. If anything, they might utter a muffled complaint. They have no energy. They are dead.

I know this because I have become one of the walking dead. Movement is a chore. Rational thinking no longer exists. This is why I sit and stare at the pavement instead of the gorgeous day dawning on a dead city.

This is why I contemplate the wind in my hair, the feeling of flying, the feeling of life as I plummet.....

down

I....Am.....Tired.....

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Epic Hell

So, I'm mired in my work. Waking up around 5, working from around 6 until after 11PM every night. It's been brutal. I can't recall it being this awful in years. I can't even figure out why it's so bad, other than the usual bullshit. Clients coming in late, random must have immediately crap and the ever worsening issue of amended statements from brokerage houses. All that has managed to make my days far more miserable than I anticipated.

A client came in yesterday, took one look at me, shook his head and said "you look awful."

I do.

I feel awful too.

So, yeah. I'm exhausted. I can deal with that.

This past week also saw a heat wave in the city. We hit 92 degrees the other day. NYC was the hottest place in the country. If that doesn't suck enough, we don't have air conditioning and, somehow, there was no breeze on the 20th floor. This means the office was a fucking sauna. Sweating like a pig, I sat and worked, for about 17 hours each day.

I stank by the end of each day.

Still, I can endure all this. More so since, thanks to the opressive heat, a client of mine, who is a c list celebrity, came in wearing the loosest clothing she could without looking like a tart and I managed to be there when she had a mild clothing malfunction. I was graced with a celebritit sighting. Big win. Made the sweat rivulets crawling down my back like little spiders seem so inconsequential.

Floogin endures. I have to. My clients rely on me. They need me. My family relies on me. They need me. My father relies on me. He needs me. If I can't soldier on, his income stream will slow and he won't be able to dole out money to my deadbeat brother in law and he won't be able to fund my sister's new business, much as he did for her piece of shit husband.

I endure.

Until yesterday, I thought, stress, heat, exhaustion....bring it on motherfucker.

Then I went downstairs to grab a bite to tide me over for the night. Chicken salad. The deli next door has this awesome chicken salad. I've been getting a scoop every night this week.

So, I grab the meal, head up to the office, sit down and notice a large pile of new work dumped on my desk. Fucking work gremlins torturing me again.

I shrug my shoulders, smile at the pile, mumble a fuck you to the work gods and tell myself I am the lizard king, I can do anything.

And I eat.

And I get back to work.

I hammer out yet another "must finish by the morning" return and then, the oddest, strangest thing happens.

My stomach grumbles. Odd. I just ate. I can't be hungry.

Then I feel it. Like there's a hose down my throat, I feel some liquid moving back and forth across my abdomen. I can feel it turning back and forth making its way towards my.....fuck!

GET OUT OF THERE! NOW NOW GO GO GO!!

I bolt for the bathroom. Fumbling for the keys in my pocket, I stumble, my hand, instinctively reaches for my ass. I turn the corner, racing to the bathroom and, like in some lame horror movie, my keys go flying. Nooooooooooooooooooo!! I try to catch them, I stumble again, the keys skidder across the floor. On the run, I bend and grab them, fumbling with the ring, trying to find the right key.

My hands shaking, my ass clenching, I work the key into the lock, fly into the bathroom, slam the stall door open as I tear at my belt and my pants. I sit down just as it happens.

Now, I know nobody likes to read this but, well, it's my story and I'll shit if I want to.

Out it comes. No cramps. No pain. No nothing. It's like someone stuck a needle in a water balloon. A long, steady, never ending stream. I'm literally peeing from the wrong end. Disgusting? Yes. Relieving? So I thought.

Then the sweats hit me. As if I'm not hot enough already.

Sweat is pouring down my face.

The asspee stops.

A beat passes. I hear/feel another crazy surge of liquid in my gut.

And it happens again.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Where the fuck is all this liquid coming from.

As the second (literal) wave subsides I realize the automatic lights never went on.

Fabulous. I'm in the dark, pissing out of my ass and I didn't grab my phone so I could give myself a bit of light.

A third epic blast ensues and then, for the first time in the last 15 minutes, my body begins to feel as normal as it can. I finish up. Stand up and then the nausea hits me. No, it isn't the smell. The liquid flame thrower that was my ass produced an oddly odorless napalm.

No, this nausea is something else. A burp exits my mouth. Oh god. Chicken salad, coming right up!

Pants still around my ankles, I spin around and start to bend down. As I open my mouth to get that salad out I see my sunglasses slipping out of my shirt pocket. My first reaction, "why are my sunglasses in my pocket." My second reaction, reach for the glasses. My third reaction?

Puke all over my hand.

The splash of my projectile vomiting, masked the splash of my sunglasses as they hit the soupy, nasty mix of toilet water, shit and puke.

I look down.

I can't even see them.

My hand is covered in puke.

I've got no choice.

I'm going in.

I close my eyes, say a quick prayer to whatever demon is watching me, laughing his red tailed ass off, and thrust my hand into the mess.

I swirl my hand around, reaching as deep as I can. They're on the bottom, in the hole that leads to shit purgatory.

I'm not going in further, no. I'm practically up to my elbow in it and my fingers are grazing the edge of the frame. I manage to move them up a bit and then I grab them.

Now what?

I should abandon them. I know I should.

But I love them and I haven't the time to get new ones. Besides, what if they don't make them anymore. It took me forever to pick these out.

I slowly slip my arm, my wrist, my glasses clenched in my fist, out of the slop. Bits of puke and shit

The Long Walk Home

My route, each night, is unchanged. I leave the office, walk north on 7th Avenue until it merges and crosses over Broadway at 42nd Street. At this point I stick to the east side of the are, walking north along Broadway.

I do this every night after work, unless it's pouring. Then I take the subway or a cab (depending on the time).

Anyway, I did this last night, as always and I was somewhat surprised by the number of people on the street. Tourists everywhere. Fuck, people everwhere. It made my bobbing and weaving more difficult and I wound up with a few too many "I'm sorrys" after an errant elbow or shoulder bump.

As I exited the shower this morning, I turned on the news. The first story was about the 4 separate shootings on 7th Avenue last night.

2 people shot in Herald Square. That'd be the area around Macy's. Well, gee, that's across the street.

The other 2 were shot in the 40's and 50's along 7th Ave. In other words, right along my normal route.

Granted, the shootings ocurred after I had passed through but one of them was early enough that, on any other night, I might have been there.

That's fucked up.

On a side note, the desire to continue the drama with "the twins" is gone. I was going to take pictures of my hands, with gloves and without, post em for Trent, and talk about how my twins were refusing to let me go back to my normal life with my wife and kids but, well, to be totally honest, I just don't have it in me.

I've lost my sense of humor and my sense of fun.

The work and the stress of finishing this shit on time is, for the first time in my life, weighing down on me. It's an odd feeling and I'm trying to figure out how best to understand and deal with it.

Sometimes The News Is Good

I read the paper each morning, either before the kids wake up or on my way to the office. At least once, each morning, there's a story about some asshole beating his infant child into a coma or some drunk running over a kid on a tricycle or a kidnapped child found dead or some other horrific type of story. Real lump in the throat stories. You read them and you wonder, how does someone live through that kind of loss? How does someone stand idly by while someone else in their home molests or abuses their baby?

Well, this morning, for the first time in, basically, forever, there was a story that brought that familiar lump in the throat. Fortunately, this time, it was uplifting and that lump was one brought on by my pride in humanity.

I know, Floogin's getting a bit mushy and sentimental but, seriously, this was that good of a story.

Seems some family was checking out one of the old sailing vessels down by the South Street Seaport, working their way up the ramp to the entrance of the boat, when the dad turned around and realized his two year old daughter wasn't beside him. He looked around and realized that she had slipped and fallen, 20 feet, into the cold water below. Without missing a beat, he started running down the ramp, emptying his pockets as he went. He got to the dock, looked down, located his daughter under the surface and went, feet first, into the frigid waters.

Like a needle, straight down he went. When he popped back up, his limp child was in his arms. After a couple of seconds, the little girls started crying, indicating she was, for the most part, ok.

As this was unfolding, an unknown french tourist jumped over the side to help the man with his daughter. The father swam towards the Frenchman who helped hoist the child up to another man who was lying on his stomach, reaching for the baby. That man was being held down by yet another man. In all, there were 4 or 5 guys working to help get this baby out of the water and then they aided the man in climbing out of the drink as well.

All these strangers, from around the globe, reaching out to help one man. In and out of the water. Nobody hesitated, nobody looked around, waiting on others to take charge. Everyone acted. Heroes, all of them. The baby was taken to a nearby hospital and released a little while later. The father was fine as well. The Frenchman? He simply did his heroic thing and hopped into a cab, presumably, to head to his hotel for some dry clothes.

I'd like to think I'd be able to do this. I did it once before, heading into treacherous waters, to save someone. I didn't hesitate. I didn't even have the foresight to empty my pockets, like the father did. I ran head first into waters that had taken the life of a father and son several months earlier, not just drowning them, but smashing them to pieces on the rocks as well. I did it for my wife, the mother of my infant daughter. Could I do something like that for a complete stranger? Could I jump into icy waters to help a man and his daughter?

While I hope I never have to find out, I sure hope I would.

Would you?

For the whole story, complete with pictures of the rescue, head to www.nydailynews.com

Floogin McSnappin

I am so close to snapping. Between my clients and the morons in the office, I swear, if I don't kill someone or turn and leap out of the window, it will be a fucking miracle.

Not So Alone Anymore

So, last night, I worked until close to ten and then walked home. I was all set for a quick bite and some couch time to catch up on all the shows I missed this week.

The twins wanted some fun but I was tired, not up for it at all. I told them my plans for the night and they said they understood but wanted to hang out with me so, stupidly, I obliged.

No sooner had I put my dishes in the dishwasher, did they start in on me.

I explained that I wanted to watch Fringe, they promised to obliged.

Two minutes into the show, they're all over me. Moving over my body, trying to find their way into my pants.

I managed to fend them off during fringe but, when parenthood was turned on, they protested. After a lengthy argument about my needing rest, needing some down time, they asked me why I even asked them to hang out with me. I reminded them that I wanted nothing more than to watch tv and sleep and then they got weird on me.

You need us, they said.

No, I don't

Yes, you can't live without us, they told me.

I think I can.

I told them that I had warned them that this wasn't going to be anything more than a little fun while the wife was out of town. They told me they can't do that. They told me they want to be by my side, always.

I told them that was impossible.

Getting rid of us impossible, they said.

Seriously, I cannot walk around with you two hanging by my sides, practically attached to my wrists.

But, yes, you can they said. We will always be there. We won't go away.

So now I have these two sex craving nutters refusing to leave.

They're here in the office with me now. One on either side of me, telling me to shut the door so we can have a little play in the office.

I need to get my work done. They are insatiable. They are crazy.

Oddities in the Home

Ok, so, as I mentioned, the family is out of town. They left on Wednesday. I came home that night, picked up the mail and the monthly box from Tassimo (coffee pod things). I put the mail on the dining room table, the box on the coffee table by the entrance. Had my fun with the twins and left for work yesterday morning with the box still on the table. Also, it should be noted, I made the bed but I left the 49 decorative pillows in a pile next to my wife's closet. I don't understand the need to have all these pillows and, to be honest, I have a fear that, on my death bed, I'll have a moment of clarity where I realize I wasted 3.8 years taking those fucking pillows off the bed and putting them back on.

So, anyway, I left for work with the coffee on the coffee table (how apropos) and the pillows stacked up next to my wife's closet.

I left work a little after nine last night. One of my college roommates was in town so I was going to stop by my apartment, drop my shit off and head to the bar where he was waiting for me, with another friend of ours.

I open my apartment door, toss my jacket on the chair, my bag on the floor next to it and then the mail on the pile on the ....where's my mail?

Odd. I don't remember moving it to the kitchen counter.


I turn around, head towards my bedroom and I look down at the coffee table. Something isn't right.

Where the fuck is my gigantic box of coffee?

To say I was confused would be an understatement.

I walked over to the fish tank. Clean as a whistle. Are whistles clean? You blow spit and stink breath through them. I'd say they're actually pretty fucking filthy but, I digress.

The tank cleaners were here. Did they steal my coffee? As I'm walking back towards the hallway leading to my bedroom, I see the box. It is placed, neatly, at the bottom of a bunch of other boxes, to the side of the entrance. Did Kiwi (my tank cleaner) straighten up my living room? I know she, and her husband, are meticulous and neat as hell in and around the fish tank but this box was nowhere near the tank. Could she have been bothered by my placement of the box? Could it have been so annoying to her that she felt compelled to stow it neatly in the corner?

Oh well, no time to consider that. I was late.

I walk out the door, head downstairs and walk the block to the bar. The night was fun. Drank a bit too much and spent a few hours catching up with the friend. Good stuff.

Asked the twins if they wanted to party, they did so, home I went.

I stumbled into my apartment with the twins and made a beeline towards the bedroom. On the way, I explained to them how the coffee and the mail moved and nobody had been in my apartment and I told them I might have a cleaning ghost. They told me I was crazy and they started removing my clothes.

We collapsed onto the bed and as we started getting into it, I realized something was wrong.

The pillows were all back on the bed.

I sat up, startled.

What the fuck?

This was like the kitchen chairs in Poltergeist (for the young'uns - a classic haunted house movie from the past). I move em, they move back.

Now I'm fully convinced I have a ghost that likes a tidy home.

When I left this morning, the pillows were piled up next to the closet. Yesterday's mail was on the kitchen table and the coffee was where the ghost left it. We'll see what happens tonight.

As for the twins, I'm sensing a problem with them. I think that they might be getting too into all this fun. I was extremely clear about this being a temporary thing, only possible while my wife was out of town but, the one that likes to be to my left asked me last night, in the middle of it all, to remove my wedding band. Something about it making them uncomfortable, physically and emotionally.

I might have to end this before it gets too far out of control.

Flying Solo

The wife and kids left yesterday. Ten days in Florida. The kids are out of school and I'm not around much these days, so it makes sense for them to flee to warmer climes.

I got home around 10:45 last night. Empty apartment. It was freakishly clean and quiet. The lack of clothes, suitcases missing, made it feel like I'd been abandoned.

So I celebrated.

I dropped my shit off and went to the restaurant down the block. I brought my nook so it would appear as if I was not some loser sitting alone, drinking alone.

After the second, maybe the third drink, I met them. Twins. They were sweet as could be. Friendly, great listeners, great sense of humor. We had a few drinks and then I did something I never thought I'd do. I brought them back to my apartment. I tried sneaking them past the doorman but he saw us so I drunkenly explained that they are cousins or some such slurring bullshit. He looked at me like I was insane.

I don't recall much but I do know that they live near me so I had to explain that I am married and a father and this was a temporary thing. I explained to them that, upon my family's return, we shall go our separate ways. They agreed. They understood completely.

And then, after another drink in my apartment, I had sex in my bed. I never thought I'd do this without the wife being there but it happened and it was incredible. I'm not going into details but we were up until the wee hours of the morning, doing it every which way possible.

Woke up after 7 this morning. about 2 hours later than normal so I had to wake them up and they joined me in the shower for one last romp before heading off to work.

I'm hoping I'll see them again tonight. I'm supposed to have dinner with some of my college friends and, obviously, I can't let them know what's going on so, if they're still willing after a night out with the boys, I'm hoping they'll come back tonight.

Before you ask, yes, I do feel a little guilty about it all but my wife is out of town and I need this to relieve the stress and tension of all this work.