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The boys had some of the tents setup by the time Patrice and her girls got back. She gave me an expression that looked like Phew! when she saw me, and I chuckled. She was quite a trooper.The camp was setup, a fire was going, and dinner was well on its way to being cooked long before sunset. Hot dogs and beans didn't take too long to heat up. It was an easy meal to prepare over a campfire. The weather had cooled off a little, a welcome relief. All the counselors helped out with the various chores, the least of which being sure none of the kids wandered off and got lost.Patrice and I ate together, sitting side by side with our backs against a log. Patrice was discreetly rubbing her bare leg against mine, a sensation I was enjoying a lot. When I finally looked over at her, I noticed she was looking not at my face, but my lap. There was a ghost of a smile on her lips. With a shock, I realized what she was doing. She was watching me get hard through my pants—and she was doing a good job of. "With me it was always the opposite. My job was my life ... there was nothing else for me in the world but the story I was working on, or the story I was thinking of writing after that, or the one after that. There was me and the stories and nothing was more important. I'd run on adrenaline and caffeine and sometimes other pharmaceuticals as well, whatever it took to get the story done; interviews, research, the writing, the polishing, the fact-checking, the rewrites ... and when it was all over and done with, I'd have to tranq myself just to relax, just to realize that it was over. So I'd sleep a few days and then I'd be faced with what jokingly passed for my life ... or the next story. The next story always won that showdown. I'd run back to my obsession as fast as I could and throw myself into it as hard as I could, anything to get away from the fact that I hated my life."So I came to visit, hoping to learn his secret ... hoping to be able to put things in perspective." And what's.
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