It Sucs to Be Me: Marc's Story

It Sucks To Be Me: Marc's Story

The following is based on one of the characters from GeorgeAnderson's epic Sept. 11, 2020 tale, "

February Sucks

," and my follow-ups to that story. I would like to thank GeorgeAnderson for giving me permission to post this and encourage you to read his original if you haven't already. This is NOT a rehash of the original.

Since that story came out, a number of authors wrote follow-ups and sequels to that story, as did I. This, however, is a bit different. Yes, it is a bit tongue-in-cheek in places,and it was meant to be that way.

Many thanks to those who offered comments and constructive criticism on my previous stories. For those who want to say this or that would never happen, remember this is my universe, a place where nearly anything can, and often does, happen. At least on paper...

Please refer to my profile for more on my personal policy regarding comments, feedback, follows, etc. (Yes, I moderate comments) And please remember, this is a work of fiction, not a docu-drama...

And as Vandemonium1 might say, lighten up...

* * * * * *

The doctor opened his notepad and looked at me before speaking. I was extremely nervous -- I had never been to a shrink or a counselor before, but I was told he was the best in the business. If anyone could help me, he could, I was told. I hoped they were right.

"So, young man," he said. "Tell me your story. Start from the beginning with a brief introduction. We have plenty of time. If it's okay with you, I'd like to record this." I nodded my head and he started the recording. "Okay, whenever you're ready."

I took a deep breath, then began:

It sucks to be me. I mean, it REALLY sucks. And not just in February. I'm talking 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Why is that, you might ask.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Marc LaValliere. Yeah, THAT Marc LaValliere. Anyone who's spent more than a few minutes on this site knows who I am. I was living the dream -- a big-time football hero with fans around the world, endorsements out the rear end, more women than any ten guys could shake a stick at. I had it all -- money, power, prestige, you name it.

Life was going great for me. Then GeorgeAnderson wrote that story about the time I spent with the woman in the blue dress. I barely remember her name -- was it Lisa? No, Linda. That's who it was. Then all hell broke loose.

Since that story came out, there have been numerous other stories, written by a bunch of different people. And I was the bad guy in every single one of them. Do you know what it's like to be one of the most hated characters on a site like this? I doubt it.

I guess in hindsight, I should've seen it coming. A little more than a year before my evening with Linda, I spotted a gorgeous woman and tried picking her up. When her fiance stood up and faced me, though, I knew I had bitten off a bit more than I could chew. You should've seen him. I swear, it was as if he morphed right in front of me -- his eyes turned black, and his body seemed to pulsate with raw power -- the kind I didn't want to face without backup.

I backed down, but I ran into the twerp later. I turned out he was kind of computer nerd and he was doing work for the team I play on. I tried a second time to snatch his woman, but failed. Shortly after that, her husband, Greg, put on a demonstration just for me. It turned out he wasn't just a computer guy -- he was a former military martial arts champion who could probably kill me with his bare hands without breaking a sweat.

I slowed down a bit, but I guess the saying about dogs returning to their vomit is true. I couldn't stop being what I really am, or was. Let's face it, I was just another skirt-chasing asshole. But it's not my fault. Really. Let me explain.

You see, my father was also a skirt-chasing asshole. He wasn't always like that, though. He changed after my mother died. It happened about a year or so before I started high school. She died of pancreatic cancer and he didn't take it too well.

After a few months of moping around, he started hitting the bars on the weekends, bringing home strange women. I knew what he was doing, and I didn't like the idea of strange women in the bed he once shared with my mother, but I gradually grew to accept what he was doing. He was always good to me and we always got along great, so there was no problem there.

I inherited a lot of my father's traits. Like him, I was bigger and stronger than most guys my age, and since I loved playing football, I tried out when I started high school. I was accepted, and played football from that point on. My Dad was so proud that I had made the team, and always made it a point to watch me play every chance he got.

The Saturday after I turned 18, he took me to a bar and introduced me to a beautiful woman named Alicia. I'll never forget the way she looked in her short skirt and tiny tube top.

"This is my son, Marc," he said when he introduced us. "Make a man out him for me, okay?" he added with a smile. At first I didn't know what he meant. He slapped me on my shoulder and gave me a big smile. "I'll see ya in the morning, son," he said. Alicia took my hand and led me away for a night of carnal desire I would never forget. She even drove me back to the house the next morning and dropped me off with a kiss.

It didn't end there. My Dad gave me a lifetime membership to a porn site, and would sometimes invite me to join him and the girl he brought home that night. I can't tell you how many times we double-teamed some hot girl in his bed. By the time I graduated high school, I had received a sex education most guys my age could only dream about and had bedded most of the girls in my senior class.

"Eighteen to eighty, blind, crippled or crazy," was my father's motto, and it also became mine. Although, to be honest, I never saw my Dad with a disabled girl. I'm not bragging. That's just the way it was.

I went to college on a football scholarship and continued my sex education there, sleeping with as many women as I could. My Dad did his best to make to my games, but it was difficult given the distance. So, I managed to get videos of my games and sent them off to him.

I was drafted by the Sharks during my senior year in college and joined the team after graduation. My Dad was so proud he held a party at the house. I made sure he got season tickets every year, and even arranged to put him up in a nice hotel when we played out of town.

Eventually, he contracted cancer which ate him down to nothing. I helped whenever and wherever I could, but nothing seemed to help. He ended up in hospice care toward the end, but was able to watch me play in my first Super Bowl. Of course we won, and I gave him a shout out when I was interviewed after the game.

"Who do you credit the most for your success?" the reporter asked me.

"It may sound corny," I said, "but the man I credit the most is my Dad, who also happens to be my hero." I looked in the camera. "This is for you, Dad," I said. "I love you, Dad!" He died shortly after that, but the nurses told me he had tears in his eyes when he saw my interview.

I miss my Dad, but life goes on. My football career went into overdrive. I was a hometown hero. Streets were temporarily named after me. Women named their children after me. I had endorsements out the wazoo. I was living the dream.

At the same time, my sex life also went into overdrive. I didn't even have to work very hard to pick up women. All I had to do was introduce myself. Somewhere along the way, I found that I had a taste for married women. I especially liked the idea of cuckolding their worthless husbands. I got off on that about as much as I did the actual sex. Hell, I figured, if they had been taking care of business in bed, I'd be out of business, if you know what I mean.

Then it happened. It was February 29 -- the night I picked up the woman in the blue dress. I won't bore you with the details -- you probably already know all about that. My life changed forever. After the world learned about what I had done, it was "Katy bar the door."

Reading some of those stories, you'd probably think I was the spawn of the devil or something. Well, things went to shit for me. I picked up one more woman, and never even got a chance to do anything with her, thanks to her husband, who shot me in the knees, ending my football career.

Once word got out about my philandering ways, I became a pariah. The endorsements dried up. The owners of the team fired me. A number of husbands got together and filed the mother of all class action lawsuits against me. I was ruined, physically and financially.

It took months of strenuous physical rehab before I could even walk again. I was close to bankrupt and ended up selling my house and all but one of my vehicles. I packed up what I felt I would need to survive and sold the rest. I left town in the dead of night, my tail tucked between my legs. Thank God my father wasn't alive to see this, I thought as I headed west to look for greener and friendlier pastures.

I realized early on I would need to get another job as I couldn't live on what I had forever. When I reached the west coast, I began looking for work, but it wasn't easy. It turned out my reputation had preceded me. Once a potential employer looked at my name, it was all over. I can't tell you how many times I got the bum's rush.

Many of my nights were spent in small, smelly fleabag motels where I would fantasize about cuckolding some of the writers who published stories about me, especially that Saddletramp guy. Of course, nothing ever came of my fantasies. They were just fantasies, after all. Still, I thought, a guy can dream, right? Thing is, with the way my luck was going, I'd probably end up with a nuke strapped to my ass.

So I pushed on. I kept looking for work, but couldn't get anything. Hell, I couldn't even get a job flipping burgers. Frustrated, I drove north and finally ended up in Fresno. Surely, no one knew me here, I thought. I read the classifieds as I ate breakfast and found that a radio station was looking for a sports caster. What the hell, I thought. I had a degree in communications, even though I never used it. So I went to the station and applied for the job.

I sat in front of a desk as the woman looked over my resume. "Brenda Collier," her nameplate read. She was a somewhat older woman, and reminded me a bit of my mother. She frowned as she put my resume and application down. Then she stared at me through her glasses.

"I'm sorry, Mr. LaValliere. I'm aware of your history and I don't think you'd be a good fit here," she said. Suddenly, my vision blurred and I felt moisture on my face. I was crying -- something I hadn't done since my father died. I wasn't sobbing, but I could feel hot tears course down my cheeks and I couldn't control myself. I felt so embarrassed, so... useless.

"Please," I begged. "I'm not that guy anymore. All I'm asking for is a chance. I really need this job." That much was true. I was getting low on funds and really needed the job. On top of that, the never-ending stream of rejections had worn me down to the point that I was now begging for a job. I never had to beg for anything in my life. She studied me for a minute before speaking again.

"All right," she said. "Why don't you freshen up a bit, maybe gargle some warm water and let's see what you can do." I looked up at her, feeling hope for the first time in months.

"Really?" I asked. She nodded her head.

"Sure," she said. "You can use the washroom right down the hall." I went and washed my face and gargled with warm water as she suggested. I met her back in the hallway and she lead me to a soundproof room equipped with a microphone and a set of headphones.

"Just read what's on this and let's see what you sound like," she said, handing me a sheet of paper with a script. I took my seat, put the headphones on and waited for her signal. When she gave it, I read the script as written. When I finished, she ushered me back to her office, then listened to the tape.

"Well, Mr. LaValliere," she said. "It seems you have what we would call a good set of pipes. I tell you what I'll do. I'll bring you on for three months. Call it a probationary period. If things go well, we'll put you on full-time. But I'm warning you. This station is family-owned and operated, and the owners won't tolerate any bullshit. You understand what I'm telling you?"

"I understand, Ms. Collier," I said. "I'll be on my best behavior, I promise."

"I'm glad to hear that," she said. "And you can call me Brenda."

"Thank you, Brenda," I said. "You won't be disappointed."

"I hope not," she said. So I finally landed a job. Sure, it didn't pay anywhere near what I was making when I played for the Sharks, but it was better than a sharp stick in the eye. I moved into a small one-bedroom apartment and began my new career as a sports caster.

It didn't take long for me to get used to my new job. I reported in every day, checked out the reports, made adjustments as I felt necessary, then read the report on air. I was also tasked with doing the play-by-play for local high school games and found that I enjoyed it almost as much as I enjoyed playing. It felt good to be part of something like that again.

I felt that I had been given a second chance in life, so I quit partying like I did when I played football. Sure, I would go out to eat from time to time, or have a drink with some of the folks from the station, but that was it.

Everyone at the station treated me just fine. They all knew my history, but kept quiet about it. When my probationary period was over, Brenda called me into her office.

"Well, Marc," she said. She quit calling me, Mr. LaValliere a long time ago. "I must say that I'm truly surprised. You've done a remarkable job here. Our ratings are higher than they've been in a very long time, and advertisers are clamoring for spots during your broadcast. Not only that, but you seem to have turned over a new leaf. I'm impressed."

"Thank you, Brenda," I said.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'd like to offer you a one year contract. Is that something you'd be interested in?"

"Absolutely," I said. She handed me the paperwork and I looked it over.

"Keep in mind, there's a morals clause in this contract," she said.

"I saw that," I told her.

"Good," she said, handing me a pen. I looked the contract over one more time and signed it. Finally, I was back in the game for good.

Things continued as they had for the previous three months. I was doing well, and even managed to keep my trousers zipped. It had been months since I had been with a woman, though, and I began to feel the old urges coming back. Thank goodness I still had my subscription to that porn site, though.

A couple weeks later, the station brought in a new writer -- Lisa Collier. She had just moved back to Fresno from San Diego. I was taken back when I first saw her. She reminded me of the "girl next door" with long wavy dark hair that cascaded over her shoulders and piercing green eyes.

"Are you related to Brenda?" I asked when we first met.

"Yes, she's my aunt," she said.

"Oh," I said quietly. So much for asking her out. She wasn't wearing a ring, so I knew she wasn't married. Still, I didn't want to risk my job by asking her out.

"And I'm not attached, so it will be okay if you want to take me out for dinner," she said. What, I asked myself. Was she coming on to me? I decided to see if she was serious.

"Oh, okay," I said. "Are you available for dinner tonight?"

"Of course," she said. She wrote her address and telephone number down on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. "Be there, 6:00 pm. Sharp. I like seafood, by the way."

"Okay," I said. "I'll be there." I picked her up and we went to Red Lobster for dinner. Afterward, we went out for a drink. I would have taken her dancing, but I couldn't dance, thanks to my damaged knees. We spent a lot of time just talking and getting to know each other. It turned out she had divorced her husband after catching him cheating on her. As part of the divorce, she gave up her husband's surname and reverted to her maiden name. She left San Diego after the divorce was final. I felt bad for her and told her as much. I started to tell her some of my story but she stopped me.

"I know all about you," she said. "I followed your story in the sports pages. I was a bit surprised when Aunt Brenda told me she had hired you. She's very particular about who she brings on board."

"Is that what tonight's all about?" I asked. "You want to know what your aunt saw in me? Maybe you think I'm still the same guy I was a year ago?"

"Partly," she said. "Are you? The same guy you were before?"

"No," I said quietly. "I've learned my lesson. The hard way. I fell from grace once, and it was a hard fall. I'm not doing that again."

"I hope not," she said. "You seem like a really nice guy." I took her home and got a nice kiss for my effort. That night, I didn't need to watch any porn. The next day, Brenda came by.

"I understand you took Lisa out last night," she said.

"Yes, we had a nice dinner and a couple drinks, then I took her home," I said. "Nothing happened."

"I know," she said. "Just don't break her heart. She's been hurt once before and I won't stand by and let it happen again. Understand?"

"I got it," I said.

Lisa and I dated several more times and got to know each other quite well. Then it happened. She invited me into her apartment and offered a nightcap. As we sipped our drinks, we ended up in each other's arms.

"It's been a long time since I've been with a man," she said.

"It's been a long time since I've been with a woman," I told her.

"Let's do something about that," she said, straddling my lap. We ended up spending the night in her bed. Fortunately, it was a Saturday, so I didn't have to work the next day. The next morning, she fixed us breakfast and we chatted over bacon, eggs and coffee.

"It's been a while since I've made breakfast for a man," she said.

"It's funny, but I can't ever recall a woman making breakfast for me," I told her. "What would your Aunt Brenda think?" Lisa laughed at that.

"Neither one of us are married," she said. "And if I know my aunt, she'd probably wonder how I fixed your eggs." I chuckled at that. After a few moments of silence, she looked at me seriously. "I hope this isn't just a one-time thing. I'd hate to think I was just another notch on your bedpost."

"Technically, it was your bed we slept in last night," I said, causing her to smile. "And to be honest, I'm not looking for one-night stands anymore. I really enjoyed the time we spent together last night and I'm hoping we can do it again sometime soon."

"Well, play your cards right, and maybe we can," she said.

On Monday, I saw Brenda briefly and couldn't help but notice the knowing smile she gave me. I wondered if I would end up getting the axe, but it didn't happen. Lisa and I continued seeing each other and spent the night together several times. After a few months, I found myself falling for her. One night while we were out, I pulled out a small box and got down on one knee.

"Lisa," I said. "I've fallen madly in love with you, and I'd be honored if you would marry me." Her eyes widened and she hugged me, showering my face with kisses.

"I love you too, Marc," she said. "Yes, I'll marry you." I slipped the ring on her finger and we went back to my place for a night of wild lovemaking.

Everyone at the station was overjoyed to learn that Lisa and I were getting married. Finally, I thought, my life doesn't suck anymore and the old Marc LaValliere was finally gone. Even Brenda was overjoyed.

Lisa and I began planning our wedding, which was set to take place in three months. The closer we got to the happy day, the more excited I became. Then it happened.