syd
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 18, 2005
- Messages
- 273
The office is a bizarre place, mixing with people so alien to you. You never know what to say to any of them. Bible thumpers, sport fans, golfers, people who live at the gym, get enough sleep; eat right, worry about the price of gas, people who are answering honestly when they say “I’m good, I’m good.”
She has on her black skirt today, all the way to her fucking knees. She is making small talk, trying like you, to kill the last hour before the freedom of a three day weekend. She is telling you about some Jesus Juicer she is looking forward to. This is how she spends every weekend. She loves babies and pets and old people. She volunteers at the nursing home and the hospital. She brings food to the starving animals that wonder around near the office. She loves her church and everyone in it. Even after you mocked her faith, told her God was dead and no one cares, she still invites you every Friday to have your soul saved on Sunday. Her husband looks like Superman. She says good morning to everyone she passes in the hall. She is a good, caring, kind, gentle person.
And while she drones on about how exciting and fun it will be, you dream about cutting two feet off her black skirt. You dream of taking her to the King’s Inn and asking for the filthiest room available. You want just one chance to ruin this sweet, pretty, ordinary, naïve, young girl. You would take her to the King and shoot her full of speedballs and paint pictures of Jesus upside down on every wall and fuck her in ways Superman has never imagined, until her eyes rolled back in her head. You would feed her liquor and drugs until she passes out from exhaustion. Then you would leave her face down on the dirty sheets and never meet her eyes in the hallway while the bruises on her arms turn yellow and heal. This is the type of person you are.
You could come if you want, she says.
What, you say snapping back from your fantasy.
I said, you can come if you want.
I think we both know that’s not going to happen.
She gives a small knowing laugh at this.
Even with all her fund raisers and charity auctions and car washes, there is still a hint of your longing in her eyes, the strain and monotony of the five day work week, the boredom that drives you mad each day. Every morning you notice that distance spark of desire you carry around constantly, reflected in her eyes. It has less to do with sex and more to do wanting something amazing, even if it’s just for a moment. You want so badly to believe she wants what you want. You want to believe she isn’t as good as all her actions have lead you to accept. You want to believe she is as confused and apathetic as you.
And before you can stop yourself you say, I could take you somewhere.
Take me where, she says a little surprised.
You know the King’s Inn, right? Just up the road?
That dump off of 421? Why would we go there?
She may be naïve to the world of drugs and alcohol and loneliness, but she is not stupid. She knows how you spend you nights and weekends, maybe not the specifics, but she knows you don’t spend them praying and taking care of sick children.
You stare at her while the realization of what you are offering sinks in.
I can’t…I’m married. I can’t just…
You give her a few seconds to change her mind, but already you feel foolish for saying anything.
Finally she says, I want to, I really do…but my family. I just_
Forget it, you say. I was just joking.
You swing around in your chair, face burning from embarrassment, wishing you could just disappear completely. You watch her reflection in your monitor for a moment while she stands behind you trying to think of something to say to make you feel better. You busy yourself with some worthless e mails and when you check the reflection a second time she is gone.
The next forty-five minutes are an eternity. All you want is to get out of the building without running into her again, and wash away you humiliation and shame with gallons of whisky and lines of white powder a mile long. You sit in your cube and speak to no one, pretending to be busy. The awkwardness your offer has created will be long and lasting. You want so badly to take back what you have said.
Shortly before five you check you e mail one last time. There is a single unread message titled “Lost Weekend” waiting for you. It is from her. Your heart begins to beat faster and your cock begins to stiffen as you double click the bold message. The single line of text reads:
6:30 The King’s Inn.
You quickly gather your things as a smile widens across your face.
She has on her black skirt today, all the way to her fucking knees. She is making small talk, trying like you, to kill the last hour before the freedom of a three day weekend. She is telling you about some Jesus Juicer she is looking forward to. This is how she spends every weekend. She loves babies and pets and old people. She volunteers at the nursing home and the hospital. She brings food to the starving animals that wonder around near the office. She loves her church and everyone in it. Even after you mocked her faith, told her God was dead and no one cares, she still invites you every Friday to have your soul saved on Sunday. Her husband looks like Superman. She says good morning to everyone she passes in the hall. She is a good, caring, kind, gentle person.
And while she drones on about how exciting and fun it will be, you dream about cutting two feet off her black skirt. You dream of taking her to the King’s Inn and asking for the filthiest room available. You want just one chance to ruin this sweet, pretty, ordinary, naïve, young girl. You would take her to the King and shoot her full of speedballs and paint pictures of Jesus upside down on every wall and fuck her in ways Superman has never imagined, until her eyes rolled back in her head. You would feed her liquor and drugs until she passes out from exhaustion. Then you would leave her face down on the dirty sheets and never meet her eyes in the hallway while the bruises on her arms turn yellow and heal. This is the type of person you are.
You could come if you want, she says.
What, you say snapping back from your fantasy.
I said, you can come if you want.
I think we both know that’s not going to happen.
She gives a small knowing laugh at this.
Even with all her fund raisers and charity auctions and car washes, there is still a hint of your longing in her eyes, the strain and monotony of the five day work week, the boredom that drives you mad each day. Every morning you notice that distance spark of desire you carry around constantly, reflected in her eyes. It has less to do with sex and more to do wanting something amazing, even if it’s just for a moment. You want so badly to believe she wants what you want. You want to believe she isn’t as good as all her actions have lead you to accept. You want to believe she is as confused and apathetic as you.
And before you can stop yourself you say, I could take you somewhere.
Take me where, she says a little surprised.
You know the King’s Inn, right? Just up the road?
That dump off of 421? Why would we go there?
She may be naïve to the world of drugs and alcohol and loneliness, but she is not stupid. She knows how you spend you nights and weekends, maybe not the specifics, but she knows you don’t spend them praying and taking care of sick children.
You stare at her while the realization of what you are offering sinks in.
I can’t…I’m married. I can’t just…
You give her a few seconds to change her mind, but already you feel foolish for saying anything.
Finally she says, I want to, I really do…but my family. I just_
Forget it, you say. I was just joking.
You swing around in your chair, face burning from embarrassment, wishing you could just disappear completely. You watch her reflection in your monitor for a moment while she stands behind you trying to think of something to say to make you feel better. You busy yourself with some worthless e mails and when you check the reflection a second time she is gone.
The next forty-five minutes are an eternity. All you want is to get out of the building without running into her again, and wash away you humiliation and shame with gallons of whisky and lines of white powder a mile long. You sit in your cube and speak to no one, pretending to be busy. The awkwardness your offer has created will be long and lasting. You want so badly to take back what you have said.
Shortly before five you check you e mail one last time. There is a single unread message titled “Lost Weekend” waiting for you. It is from her. Your heart begins to beat faster and your cock begins to stiffen as you double click the bold message. The single line of text reads:
6:30 The King’s Inn.
You quickly gather your things as a smile widens across your face.
