My Admiration For Michelle's Death Glance

I sincerely admire my sister-in-law, and like most people whom I admire, I think she really dislikes everything about me. And since I despise myself, I couldn't agree with her more. The most powerful early memory of Michelle (that's her name), is from her wedding, way back in 1994. Ostensibly, I was the Best Man at the wedding, but in reality I wasn't of any great use to anyone. A fellow named Matt LeDuc did most of the official business, like keeping an eye on the caterer and whatever other menial tasks needed to be done. My mind floated around the wedding and I basically tried to exculpate myself to a certain degree. The "degree" I was aiming for was somewhere close to "strangely detached" and away from "complete boob." I'm of the opinion that I succeeded, and most people left the wedding with no opinion of me whatsoever.

I don't drink, and I generally don't like things like weddings, so I wasn't very outgoing. But I was ensconced in thought about the institution of marriage, my brother, the way in which I fucked up the bachelor party, and, of course, Michelle. There were probably more inane thoughts in there, as well. Like, "When do I get cake?" or "Why couldn't I find a date for this thing?" All of that was in addition to the ongoing chant of, "Holy shit am I fat." over and over again.

At one point I spoke with Matt LeDuc about my poor Best Manship and he was totally cool with the way things worked out, and I felt better. As I sailed across the yard and pushed past the guests, I was happy and at peace that my brother had found love. I'm fond of love, having been in love three times. Two of those love affairs ended well, although painfully, in friendship. One ended with my heart being squashed like a wormy apple on a hot summer day. Regardless, I'm an romantic by nature, so despite my feelings on marriage in general, I celebrated in sincere exultation. I love my brother, and that's how it works.

The memory of Michelle I spoke of earlier is all about what happened next. It's very simple, I just carelessly bumped into her as she was holding an alcoholic beverage of some kind. Actually, she had two, and she was probably taking the other drink to my brother. Time stopped and space contracted as an indifferent universe suddenly seemed to be greatly interested in how I fucked up and almost caused the bride to spill her drink on her wedding dress. If memory serves, I didn't, but she looked at me with an angry desire to see me crushed. After it happened, I clumsily spat out an apology and slinked away. I half expected to get hit in the back of the head with a rock. I didn't.

In retrospect, I imagine that she was putting me in my place as a new member of the Lyle family. Sort of like in prison movies where the new guy picks a fight with the toughest prick around as a way of ascending the heirarchy. My brother is fond of me, so I may have been, in a sense, the "toughest prick around." With that one look she booted me right off the ladder. I didn't know at that point that she is smart and funny, or that she can't spell, or that she is an incredibly hard worker (just look at www.Maxxsdoodads.com). All I knew at the time is that my new sister-in-law had no qualms about flattening any fat fuck who got in her way, brother or no brother.

The psychological impact of that hideous glare is impossible to overstate. Several years ago I was involved in a sexual dalliance with a young married woman, let's call her Ann..After an episode of vigorous lovemaking, Ann rose from the bed and asked if I wanted something to drink. I asked for a Coke and she left the bedroom, naked and magnificent. While she was gone, I realized that I needed to pee (one of those erratic, post intercourse urinations). So I got up and walked to the bathroom. Along the way, I bumped into my partner, causing her to spill ice cold Coke on her naked breasts. She made some sort of exclamation, and we laughed. But as I stood in the bathroom and tried like hell to focus my stream into the toilet, I had what Vietnam veterans call a flashback.Despite my best efforts, I remembered the glare and how I felt afterward; like a roach with body odor. Later on, Ann and I started to make love again, and after pleasuring her orally, I went in for the 60 second thrust to satisfy me. Incidentally, that's my most oft used blueprint for sex. Pleasure her with the lips and tongue, starting with the neck down and moving down to the genitals over about 20-45 minutes, finishing with a fantastic clitoral flourish. After she orgasms, I poke her and then we have a slice of pizza. But after the memory flash, I found myself without an erection. As my partner moaned and spread her legs, reaching out for me to penetrate her and get her bed sticky, I just looked down at my limp penis. That is very, very, very rare for me. Synthetic testosterone gives me erections just about anytime I want one. Usually even when I don't want one, like when I'm walking past the playground down the street. That thing is going to get me into trouble. I just can't control it sometimes...arousal may or may not be cause a stiffy. But that early morning, my pecker went unused, like a library card in George W. Bush's pocket.

You may think that I'm blaming Michelle for something that is clearly not her fault. After all, I was with a woman who was cheating on her husband, and he was due home in less than two hours. While he was plowing snow, I was plowing his wife. So yes, I was very nervous about getting killed by a vengeful husband. But I just like sex so much...I do, I really do! But as my brother once said, "That's just not right, man." But I performed well in her car the day we went to the Museum of Fine Arts. I even did very well earlier that same morning. So it wasn't fear of getting caught. And it wasn't that I was torn about the morality...Ann was an adult, and I respected her right and choice to bang me in a meaningless, base series of sexual encounters. It wasn't until I bumped into her and I had that memory flash of Michelle's dirty look that I went limp.

I deeply admire Michelle for what she did, though. Most people are simply not as adept as she is at conveying a message with a single glance. Since then, she's grown to love me, and I her. I tell her everything about my love life and mental illness, and seek out her advice because I think she is very intelligent. Although, again, she can't spell for beans. But that's just not her bag. So I raise my glass to Michelle, and hope to one day master the art of the glance.

It's all true, kids. And she makes a fine doggie treat. I tried one, and they are wicked good.