Saturday, January 21, 2006

shitting where you eat and awkward elevator rides

A lot of people don't believe in office romances. My longest relationship was with somebody I worked with, so I don't discourage them, as long as you can handle the potential fallout. The company where I met WorkLove was full of attractive guys, and we spent long hours working in an open plan office, where there was a fair amount of interaction. A lot of us would go drinking together, on Friday nights or after a particularly stressful day. We all know what stress plus alcohol plus attractive people's hormones can lead to.

As it was, our receptionist had an affair with one of our company directors, and was propositioned for a threesome with him and the other director. She also made out with at least two other guys in the company. This made me feel less like the company whore when I ended up going through two of the boys I worked with. I had a serious relationship with the second one, but the first one...

It all began as a typical Friday night. We were out drinking, possibly celebrating somebody's new job (this company had a high turnover rate). The group of us ended up at a club, where I started flirting with one of the cute boys I worked with (since I can't remember a thing about him, we'll call him Generic Gary). I never looked at Gary that way, but several cocktails and alcopops made him seem... well, hotter than he ever was to me.

Conversation was minimal, and Gary and I were making out in a dark corner of the club in no time. I said,

"We can't let anybody from work know about this."

Fifteen minutes later, he and I were sucking face on the dance floor, grinding against each other while Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle" played and my manager stood two feet away, watching.

Gary came home with me because he missed his last train (such a lie), but I told him we wouldn't do anything because I had a friend crashing on the couch in my room (also because I was finishing my period and felt a little icky; also because I didn't want to fuck him). In bed, I made out with him a little, but kept quieting him and moving his roaming hands so that we wouldn't disturb my friend.

"Just let me go down on you," he begged.

What part of My-Friend-Is-Sleeping-In-The-Next-Bed-And-I'm-Not-Going-To-Fuck-You-Anyway did he not understand?

As you might imagine, that one was gossip-laden Monday morning.

After Generic Gary and WorkLove, I had no more brushes with the 'shitting where you eat' dilemma. Until Pussy.

I mentioned Pussy a while ago. In a nutshell, he's a company hottie who I don't interact with but have noticed. We used to be on the same elevator schedule and saw each other all the time, which we acknowledged when we were finally introduced, at a work-related event ages ago.

Oddly enough, we stopped seeing each other around the building after that and didn't talk again until the company Christmas party last month. That night, we drunkenly flirted with each other, and he made my night when he asked if I wanted to get a drink some time. I said "yes" and we even agreed on a tentative day the following week. We exchanged numbers and I called him a few days later. He had forgotten all about asking me out, but was keen to make good on the plans. I said he didn't have to go through with it, but he said something to the extent of 'in vino veritas'. We said we'd figure out logistics on the day, at work.

I was terribly excited about the date, more than I had been about any date in a long time. Pussy was one of the most attractive guys at work and I got this feeling when I saw him that we could have good chemistry. This would be an amazing date, I just knew it. There would be lots of kissing and drinking and secret emails at work in the days following.

Of course, that's not how it played out. The New York City transit strike began on the the very day we were supposed to go out. We had to postpone the date. Then it was Christmas, then New Year's, and he never emailed me to reschedule or to explain or anything (which is how he gets his name). Still, it was okay, because we were on different elevator schedules and I'd never see him, right?

Wrong.

Earlier this week, I had a meeting on the floor where he works. I was in the conference room facing the open door and saw him walk by not one but three times. I have endured several awkward elevator rides. The last one was yesterday and it was the worst. He got on the elevator as I was going out for lunch. I did some shopping and as I was rounding the corner to go to the bank, I saw him again, walking down the block with some girl (probably a coworker). Those eight feet of sidewalk until we passed each other felt like miles.

If I see him around again, I might have to make a wisecrack about how we're both on similar elevator schedules again. I can't stand this awkwardness. And yet, I kind of like it, too, because it adds a fun little tension and drama to the work environment.

Though now I might have to change his name to Pussy Galore.

4 comments:

normiekins said...

just stumbled upon your blog....great posts....! be back.

Anonymous said...

Hello Dolly,

I've read all of your blog which is something of a record for me. I like your writing style - very readable. Very interesting.

Ever thought of giving your bed partners a competence rating? If it can be done for wine ("It's a competent little wine with a rich, fruity flavour" ) why not for men? You could make it a crusade - a service to womankind - to weed out the boys from the men.

When they leave you could issue them with an End Of Coition Report ("Tries hard but could do better"). You could design a certificate - the Certificate Of Coital Competence - to be awarded or placed in the local library for future reference. That way bad lovers would be shunned by discriminating females, go the way of those with bad breath and die out in a couple of generations.

Why not have three grades of certification - Quarter, Half and Full COCC?

All the best

William

The Confessor said...

LOL> I love William's idea! Very cool blog, btw

Dolly said...

William, your comment is hilarious.

It's tempting to devise some kind of grading system for men, and while I'd consider doing something like that for kissing, I think it's a lot more subjective when it comes to sex. Especially since the sex usually gets better with time, and my last few partners were... shall we say, short-lived. I wouldn't want to ruin somebody's permanent record because of a mediocre experience with me (especially taking into account that alcohol was involved).