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Tell me if you want the pain to continue. [email protected]

Orjick's Pit of Pain . . . and Pleasure

I can take more pain . . .

Yo, I'm Ben Silverstein, the author of this page, and creator of the soon-to-be infamous pit of pain and pleasure. Allow me to briefly introduce myself.
I live in a suburban household of three, well actually more than that, but I'll get into that in a second. Besides myself my cozy abode has two other inhabitants: my nasty-nice bitch of an ex-girlfriend Joan and my sleazy, can't-quite-bring-myself-to-kill-him best friend Steve. Joan was welcome at one time, more than welcome when she was first invited to live with me and my roomie, because she brought three important things to the household: sex, beer, and rent money. The second one was especially important because Steve and I are both a year shy of the legal drinking mark. The first was important to me (and later I would find out Steve as well) but of the greatest importance was the third, which I and Steve were greatly lacking in after only five months of house ownership. So you could say with a great deal of truth that Joan was asked to move in for more financial reasons than personal ones (though the beer delivery touched me deeply). That being said, I can explain in as few words as possible why I'm such a jackass and am stuck living with my ex-girlfriend and my trampin' ho-bangin' best friend. I NEED THE MONEY !!! I WANT THIS HOUSE !!!

A time has come. The Pit's ashes haven't been turned for quite a while. If you the people out there who read this site want this shit to continue, e-mail at the address on the upper right. If I don't hear anything for a week, I'll leave it alone. If you a need a quick fix, click the button up there while your at it. Thanks for checking out my Pit. The beer's good here, it's just the friends that suck.

In another time and place I might've trusted Steve, especially if I had the benefit of being moronic, blind, and deaf while in his company. However, possessing at least a kindergarten-level amount of intellect and the aforementioned senses, I knew better than trust my friend with anything that may be construed in any shape or fashion as something which he could have sexual relations with.

For starters, let me describe the man to you. He is an artist. You know, the unshaven, I need my quiet-time-with-a-beer in my pajamas sort of artist, the type who watches daytime television between 10:00 a.m. and 3:00 in the afternoon, while eating ice cream and choclate syrup. The guy who cries everytime he sees a Meg Ryan movie and later declares that whatever bastard did her wrong to make her so sad oughta be shot. This is the man of whom I speak.

And yet this man is paid for artwork that he does in our garage. This is the man who regularly lays any woman temporarily insane enough to buy into his romantic artist diatribe. And yet you would be shocked, and hopefully properly appalled, to know that this man normally lands two hot-lookin tramps every week. Wham-bam . . . you know the drill. The man has no concept of commitment. Which is how he figured prominently into my problems with Joan.

I lived and learned but fortunately never loved. That would accurately describe the world war I frequently shorthand as me-and-Joan's-relationship. Joan is a bitch. Get that through your skull right now. If you don't, you'll fall into the large category of men who fall all over themselves pandering to this woman, hoping that in some remote star system they'll have a snowball's chance with her. She doesn't go for those. She never has. Steve and I are living proof that this woman wants her men of one persuasion: insensitive. But don't let this fool you who've never laid eyes on Joan before. This woman is hot in ways that made your junior-high teacher pale in comparison. She's ruthless. She's controlling. She's a dream in a pair of jeans. (She's also one helluva ride, but that's another story). Joan will tear you up in ways that defy anatomy. And yet she has a powerful attraction. But be warned: slap that ass once and you'd best be prepared to see it for eternity (sometimes on top of other people). But don't let me stereotype Joan too much. She can seem really sweet, she's of age to buy beer, she's got a kick-ass job that nets her a wad every month, and when she gets randy she's not above recycling a few used parts. I like her a lot in a want-to-kick-her-ass-to-the-curb sort of way, but unfortunately I opted for freelance writing shortly after she moved in (and we subsequently broke up), so my income is nowhere near where it needs to be for her to leave. And she has no compunctions about living with two men whom she has both slept with (at the same time no less). Your thinking to yourself: that chicken-shit, if he had the guts, he'd slapped that bitch and threw her on her ear along with that bucket-of-garbage friend. Sorry, folks, righteous dignity is all well and great for a few hours, but afterwards doesn't get a job, pay its half of the rent, have sex with you, buy beer, or clean up after itself. These two schmoes do.

So here we are. The beggining. Hope you're strapped in for the ride, because what you see is what you get. This website is going to be totally all-the-time, all-the-facts from here on out. If you want in, feel free to hop on for the ride. You want out, I won't blame ya'. This is one screwed up boat to be in.

Posted 09/19/02
Oh, did I mention my extremely lazy band of friends who seem to live here, but don't pay rent ? Well, then I won't when I can.

Today, is the day after Joan brings home Toby, my old roomate from my failed freshmen year of college. She and him had a thing once, or so I hear through the stubbly grapevine known as Steve. The sounds of them last night helped prompt this site into existence. That and provoked me to whip out my trusty blue-book-of-names (black-schmack). Hello, Jessica. I'll tell you how it went tomorrow. Steve is busy going through his second Jack Nicholsan phase after watching A Few Good Men. I told him to shut the hell up after the first twenty impressions, which shows a great deal of restraint on my part. What is this ? Oh, hello, beer. What ? You'll keep me company even if Jessica won't ? That's nice of you. Huh ? You won't make love to me except in your intoxicating effects on my mental state of mind ? That's just fine. I'm just using you anyways.

Posted 09/26/02
Damn, your probably wondering what the hell happened to me, right ? What ? Your wondering who the hell I am ? Then read the top paragraph on the right, jackass, and get out of my soup ! I ain't got time for slackers here.
For those of you that've been keeping up I left off with this bit on the right about calling up Jessica, my chubby air-headed ex that loves a quick merry-go-round in the sack. Gets her little hopes up and makes her heart got pitter-patter. I'll never date her again though because she's a complete fucking ditz. Whatever floats my dick.
Anyways, I gave her a call, she's up for it. Everything's good. Then Ms. The-Air-Whistles-A-Merry-Tune-Through-My-Ears (and-legs) calls me back and cancels. Cancels on ME ? What the hell is this ? So I get smashed. Completely. Usually I have a few IQ points up on the average monkey and can leave the booze alone after I hit my sleep-it-off limit, but this time I went the whole nine yards.
Afterwards (as in the day after next) Joan informs me that I'm a very mean drunk. What's that ? Didemz I hurt youz little feelings ? I'm sorry baby, here let me change your diaper . . . bitch. After dragging Toby over and pounding his brains out the next room over. You gotta give it to her, she's got nerve by the truckload.

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