By James Holeva

A divorced father’s halfway house after being released from prison.

The end of a committed (or seemingly committed) relationship is like getting released from prison.

There’s the minimum security country club with ping pong and tennis – a girlfriend.

The medium security facility – a wife, but no kids.

And the maximum security penitentiary complete with sodomy, weight lifting in the yard, and the hole – wife, kids, maybe even a mortgage.
I don’t know if your wife went for sodomy, and, or, if you worked out, however you were probably allotted time in the yard. If you had a house in the suburbs, someone had to cut the grass.

What location you live in would determine if anyone ever tried to shank or shiv you, although I believe they’re the same thing.

When you’ve just been released from Shawshank you don’t go right back into normal society, you start out in a halfway house.

Divorced with kids, you’re an institutionalized man now. Unless you were smart enough to cheat on your wife, you’re starting over in a rude and unfamiliar world. You’ve forgotten all your old moves, and it’s time to hone whatever skills you had, once again.

You need your halfway house if you’re ever gonna find your way back to the G-spot. Your game and confidence is shot. Chances are your ex got your balls in the divorce. It depends how good her lawyer was.

If you lost your jewels in a nasty custody battle, or are still fighting for them along with your house, SUV, and actual jewels, I think it’s time for you to volunteer with the local chapter of the Parent Teacher’s Association: The PTA.

Doing good will make you feel good, and aid in the regrowth of your testicles. Hahaha, I’m joking completely.

However, this is no joke. Attending a PTA meeting is like going to a brothel where you don’t have to pay. Not too many men roll through these meetings, so the women are like horny vultures.


Look for “The Wingman Chronicles” hitting book stores in next year to read the rest of the story!

Chaoticness: Part 1

The Look

By James Holeva

(An excerpt from a book, and screenplay I’m working on)


   It began with a look across the patio that made us both excited, and uneasy.

   Both of us were players. Maria was a powerful 37-year-old divorced business woman who wouldn’t dare get attached to a guy. She was a big fan of spontaneous sexual encounters with younger men, and the way her married friends would live vicariously through her. But she had one rule: no sleepovers.

   Meanwhile, I’d always been a player and had just that week finally finished a relationship with a most unbalanced bipolar broad who’d just turned 18. The last thing I was looking for was a relationship.

    Obviously Maria and I were meant for each other. Provided the accommodations included spontaneous sex and no sleepover, we were each other’s fantasy.

   But the second I saw her I could tell she was different. I know I was thinking of a princess when I should be imagining a prostitute, but she was a glamorous, sassy, woman of class. Damn she was a hot piece of ass.

   It was State Street Grill in my hometown of Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania and the broad in the pink dress and I exchanged a look in the outdoor section as she sauntered across the patio. As I sat with my friends Mike and his brother Steve, and Steve’s buddy Jeff, I thought we might have caught each other’s eye. But I actually felt a bit nervous, which is not a sensation I usually feel when it comes to creepin’.

    She was a tiny dark haired Italian broad with no shortage of sex appeal. Classy and well put together, with breasts like boxing gloves. She was the girl I always dreamed about growing up — the glamorous woman full of sex appeal that was older, and unattainable.

   When I was in my teens in my suburban town, scheming after my first lay, girls like her were pushing thirty, driving around in their husband’s Benz, with fake tits and jewelry on display. That’s the girl I was fantasizing about banging while I was fucking around with teeny boppers who hadn’t had their cherries popped.

   She wasn’t your everyday crack whore, mind you; she looked like a high class ho with an exclusive clientele. I was sure she was with someone, but I remained optimistic. I couldn’t remember when a single look had had such an effect on me.

   I played it cool, hanging out at the outside table before making my way inside about fifteen minutes later only to find my friend’s younger brother’s overbearing, coked out, drunken buddy Jeff barricading her at the bar. Fuck. I had to find a way to get rid of him.

   No, I wasn’t considering whacking him. There were too many people around at the time, and besides, I had left my gat at home. I’m only being facetious, relax. I creep with my well-honed skills, not fire arms. Still I was praying for Jeff to get distracted and move away (like that would happen), or the more likely choice for her to head for the bathroom and then I could casually stalk my way over and go to work.

   Damn, how I hoped she’d have to pee.

   I experienced fantasies of cornering her, saying hello, and immediately kissing her with the event culminating by fucking her in the bathroom. Men’s or ladies’ room, I didn’t have a preference, although the ladies crapper would have been the smarter play in case Jeff had to piss or do a bump and caught us mid-bang.

   He was obnoxious to begin with, and now fucked up, and would likely throw a tantrum. I wanted our first time to be special and sweet, as I held her against the wall in a tight bathroom stall.

   So I bided my time, hoping for an opening, envisioning her approaching me and making the introduction. I have always used the power of positive thinking. I utilized the principals of “The Secret” long before it came into the main stream.

   I’ve always been a romantic dreamer and an idealist, and I live and die by those principals.

   So I stood by waiting, sipping my Coors Light and appearing like I was having fun. But my mind was on her. I’m usually the best dressed guy in a place, an aficionado of blazers and button downs with my hair in perfect position, but on this occasion we’d come from a barbecue at my friend’s house and I was sporting jeans, a t-shirt, a pair of Nikes and a Phillies hat.

   I was scumming it up, like a celebrity walking Rodeo Drive and hiding from the Paparazzi. I think positive, but why would she notice the dressed down and sweaty version of me?

   “Have you met Maria?” a blonde asked me.

   ME: “Ugh”…

   (Oh my god could the girl in pink be Maria?)

   ME: “No. I haven’t.”

   “Well let me introduce you.”

   The blonde grasped my hand and pulled me toward the girl in the pink dress, aka Maria.

   ME: “Hi I’m James.”

   MARIA: “Maria.”

   ME: “Nice to meet you.”

   We shook hands.

   MARIA: “So how do you know all these girls?”

   ME: “I don’t.”

   The blonde was a friend of my best friend’s aunt as well as Maria, and I’d met the blonde a bit earlier in the night because Steve was creepin’ on another friend of their’s. That’s why we went there to begin with, and why I wasn’t equipped with the proper wardrobe.

   This was actually Maria’s high school reunion. Same high school as me, but she graduated twelve years earlier. Yes it was her twenty-year, but she looked to be in her mid-twenties.

    MARIA: “I see. So are you from Clarks Summit?”

    ME: “Yes… But my business takes me out of town a lot. Where are you from?”

   MARIA: “Clarks Summit. But I came in for my reunion. live in San Diego now.”

   ME: “Cool. How do you like it? 

   MARIA: “Oh, I love it. So, what do you do?”

   ME: “Well I recently did a TV pilot that I wrote, starred in and produced, it’s called “The Wingman,” and we’re pitching networks.”

   MARIA: “How dare you not offer me a part in your show?”

   ME: “Well I was going to, but you didn’t give me a chance.”

   MARIA: “What part is it… Besides the part where it’s a dirty sex scene with you?”

   ME: “I actually wasn’t thinking of a dirty sex scene with me.”

   MARIA: “Ugh, you weren’t?”

   ME: “Well I was, but it’s not something you say.”

   MARIA: “You could say it.”

   ME: “Well that sounds like a great scene. Maybe you could be the sexy boutique owner at the store the character of my sister works with, and I’m into you but my sister can’t stand it because you’re her boss. And we have our sex scene in the dressing room at the boutique.”

   MARIA: “I like it.”

    Jeff interrupted: “Stop talking Holeva.”

    ME: “Oh we’re just making conversation.”

     Maria was distracted by other friends so I don’t think she noticed Jeff’s comment.

   JEFF: “What are you doing Holeva? Stop cockblocking!”

   ME: “I didn’t do anything. Her friend introduced me.”

   JEFF: “Whatever… I paved the way. Don’t ruin it.”

   ME: “I did nothing.”

   Jeff grabbed her and continued to barricade and a few minutes later I noticed Maria and a friend of her’s appeared to be talking across the bar, while Jeff continued his game. 

   “Look at him over there. I need an opening,” I told Mike.

   MIKE: “Just go over.”

   ME: “Can’t… He’ll say something and it won’t look good.”

   MIKE: “Who cares?”

   ME: “I don’t care about him, I care about looking… not smooth. I got an idea.”

   I walked over to the blonde, who’d introduced us.

   I wanted to make a move but I knew Jeff and his obnoxious nature would cause it to look less than cool, and cool wasn’t something I was willing to sacrifice while working a girl of this level.  

   ME: “Hey… Thanks for introducing me to Maria. She’s really cool.”

   BLONDE: “Well I did that because she asked me too.”

   ME: “Oh cool. Hopefully we’ll get to hangout before she heads back to Cali.”

   BLONDE: “She’s beautiful, and smart and has such a great heart.”

   ME: “That’s nice, and so hard to find.”

   BLONDE: “It is.”

   I casually sidled back toward my friends, then walked over to the other side of the bar. I grabbed a napkin.

   “Hey could I borrow a pen?” I asked the bartender.

   BARTENDER: “Sure.

   I wrote my number down on the napkin. I would have given her a Wingman Certified Creeping Specialist business card, but Jeff might have seen it, and how he might react could sacrifice cool.

   I walked back over to the blonde.

   ME: “Hey it looks like Maria’s busy and she knows a lot of people, I don’t want to bother her, but could you give her this… It’s my number. And tell her to call me if she wants to get together before she goes home.”

   BLONDE: “I would love to.”

   ME: “Thanks.”

   A few minutes later, from my home base with my friends, I sipped my drink and watched as the Blonde casually approached Maria, interrupting her conversation with Jeff. She handed her the napkin.

   JEFF: “So how about you give me your number, and we could chill?”

   MARIA: “Well I have yours.”

   JEFF: “No you don’t.”

   Maria looked at the napkin, and burst out laughing. An instant look of embarrassment encompassed Jeff’s face, humbling his usual cocky frat boy demeanor.

   I hadn’t witnessed the exact events, and was just hoping that Maria would call me before she headed back to California. I meet girls all the time but on a first encounter never really care what happens, but there was something about this girl. I knew it right away.

   As last call loomed Jeff, our drunken designated driver, waited outside behind the wheel or another friend’s pickup, screaming for us to get moving as Mike and I approached the vehicle.

   JEFF: “Hurry up.”

   I spoke to Mike.

   ME: “Let’s go back inside and find Maria.”

   MIKE: “Okay.”

   We turned around to make our way back inside. I had the number but she lived 3,000 miles away and who knew her situation. When there’s an opening you have to strike. But she, too, was on her way out. She crossed paths with us.

   ME: “Nice meeting you.”

   She hugged me.

   MARIA: “You too… I got your number, so I’ll call you and see if I could fit you in.”

   ME: “I’m up for being fit in.”


   No I wasn’t grabbing her fantastic tatas… Jeff was laying on the horn.

   “COME ON!” he yelled.

   Some motherfuckers just can’t be smooth.

   As Jeff drove the pickup truck, I sat in the tight back seat next to Mike. My phone vibrated and it was a text message from a 858 area code… “Hey!”

   “Hey who’s this?” I replied.

   “Maria!” she wrote.

   I tapped Mike and showed him. He grinned. He was probably hoping she’d invite me over for a late night bang and blow and he could have sloppy seconds, or we could run a train. She was a feisty little thing, but there were enough of her tits to go around.

   “What are you up to?” I replied.

   She didn’t write back. We arrived back at Mike’s house, sat around the living room, and still no text back. It was time to make a power move. I walked out to the garage and called Maria. Voicemail. What a cute and enthusiastic voice.

   I walked back into the house and found Jeff sitting at the computer, checking Facebook, and leaving a voicemail.

   “Hey Maria, it’s Jeff. We should chill while you’re in town… Maybe even tonight. You could call me, or you could not call me. If you don’t call… You’re really gonna regret it so I’m sure I’ll hear from you soon.”

   I sat back down on the couch, as Jeff hung up his phone.

   JEFF: “What about that girl Maria? Like dude she’s 37… What the fuck would I want with an old lady like that? Like really… What was she thinking?”

   She called me back. It’s on. She’s staying at a friend’s house close by so I’ll be inside her within the half hour. No, it’s not about that. But this sultry vixen is away from home, and what better time to make bad decisions? It’s not like we’re going to run into each other at the grocery store. And I’m doubting she wants to get into a relationship with a guy 3,000 miles away.

   We had to make the most of our time together. 

   We talked for an hour, bonding and laughing… I charmed her, we connected, and I could hear her tan skin blushing through the phone. After we hung up, I just laid down and thought about Maria until I fell asleep. I remember many instances of thinking endlessly about girls like her as a child, but I was never this close to fucking one of them. As excited as I was, I wasn’t even disappointed that she didn’t ask me to come over for a spontaneous adventure that wouldn’t warrant a sleepover. In fact, if I did, I knew I’d want to sleepover.

   There must have been something special about that look.