which culminated in him offering her a shoulder massage. She was about to take him up on the offer when I interrupted.

"Hey, what the hell do you think youíre doing! This is my woman and if sheís gonna get a shoulder massage then Iíll be the one giving it!"

Max laughed and acquiesced, and I began to massage Kirstenís shapely shoulders. She moaned with appropriate pleasure.

I didnít have to worry about Max horning in on my action, since he was strictly celibate until he was married some years later, but I didnít want Kirstenís thoughts to wander to my muscular friend. I had a running joke with him about how he should get women into a darkened bedroom and warm them up for me, and then when it came time to consummate he would roll off the bed and I would climb up from beneath and finish the job.

Realizing they were third wheels, our other guests soon departed, leaving Kirsten and I alone. She was willing prey and rapidly succumbed to my advances.

I didnít call the next day- or the day after that. The next time I worked a shift with her, she slammed a tray down on the bar, and I could see the anger sparking in her gray eyes.

"So where have you been?" she asked, her voice like flint. "I called you and left messages four times."

My response was typically callous. "Listen, I told you up front- Iím interested in only one night stands. If you were expecting to make me into your boyfriend, then youíve got another thing coming."

I finished mixing a drink and dropped it on her tray.

She swore at me and turned her back - and as she did I found that I didnít care what she was feeling. I wondered what I had become. I wanted to blame Heather for making me into the monster that I was, but I couldnít fault her completely. Sure, she had been the catalyst, but the blame still lay with me. I had allowed myself to become this, and ultimately, I couldnít lay the blame elsewhere.

Still, I wasnít ready to do anything about it yet. Though I had come to the subconscious realization of what I was, I still lived in daily denial of it. It was a nagging conscious that I tried to bury in alcohol. It was all too easy to continue on my path of self-destruction, drinking heavily and ignoring my more commendable instincts.

One night Shawn and Maryís room mate- Cindy, held a party to celebrate her birthday. Mary and Cindy both worked at a music store called ĎThe Wherehouseí. A bunch of Wherehouse employees were invited and a lot of rumour was going around about one particular femaleís supposedly promiscuous habits.

I promised everyone that I would set the record straight. She arrived with a few other guests, including a voluptuous blonde with shoulder length hair. Immediately I walked up to her and introduced myself.

"Hi, Iím September. Do you want have sex?"

Her face wrinkled in distaste. "No!" she retorted.

I turned tail and immediately announced my findings to the members of the party who had been maligning her virtue. "Nope, sheís not a slut."

The party got going and I ended up in the kitchen with the blender, mixing copious quantities of margaritas for an unceasing demand.

At the same time, I managed to consume quite a few of them myself and began to lose what little common sense and judgement I had while still sober.

Cindy, celebrating her birthday rather heavily, ended her festivities with a trip to the bathroom where she began praying to the porcelain god. In my befuddled state, I went into the bathroom