Getting Over It

GETTING OVER IT

© Clare London

 

I mean, what would you have done in those circumstances?

Laughed it off?  Turned the other cheek like the mature adult we all aspire to be?  Or would you have left the pub at the earliest opportunity, found his car in the car park, run a door key all the way along the glossy panels in a freestyle zig-zag pattern, then rounded it off with a long, hot piss in the petrol tank?

OK, I just answered myself, I guess.  And even while I was doing it, with one ear open for anyone coming out of the pub to catch me red-handed – or dick-handed, I suppose it’d be – I enjoyed it!  There’s a heady thrill in giving way to your emotions, even if they’re adolescent, vindictive and borderline criminal.  I felt an almost overwhelming desire to shout aloud as my urine hissed out into the cool evening air, stray drops spattering the toes of my shoes as well as his tyres.  It was liberating; I wanted to broadcast my anger and betrayal; to announce to the heavens that it was only what the fucker deserved!

So before tonight, I’d never thought I was the vindictive type.  I definitely never thought I was aggressive or violent.  I’m your archetypal ‘good bloke’.  I’m the designated driver more often than not.  I remember my aunt and uncle’s birthdays.  My donations to all the TV charity nights are always quite healthy.  Yeah, that’s my type for you.

But then I never thought I was the type to commit the cardinal sin of screwing my boss, and then – oh my God, let’s compound the sin with monumental stupidity, shall we – caring about it.

I knew better, of course I did.  But it’s funny how your libido can bypass every iota of commonsense and pretend it never even saw the road signs.  He fucked me the first time in his office, over his desk – how clichéd is that? – and I’d never come so fast, so hard in my life.  I was shamefully easy from then on in.  Blowjobs were as common as cups of coffee from the vending machine, and with a similar sludgy aftertaste at the end.  And by the way, he rarely returned the favour.

The fucking was just as plentiful.  He did me many, many times in his office; sometimes in his car; a couple of sordid night-time sojourns in the park.  Shit, I can’t even remember the number of times we did it in the toilets, snatching ten minutes or so during lunch break or when everyone else assumed we were doing the stationery stock-take.  We could’ve had a blue plaque placed on the farthest cubicle on the third floor, to commemorate the multiple times that Charlie (Assistant Bookkeeper, Part-Qualified, still on extended probation) took it up the arse – gladly, willingly, greedily! – from his Financial Controller.

Controller – there’s irony for you.

He knew he could have me any time he liked.  He has this smile, you see; he has this way of looking at you like you’re as smart as Bill Gates and as sexy as hell, and he can’t think of anything more fascinating than to listen to your opinions on corporate investment strategy, but would you mind dropping your boxers and bending over while he’s doing it?  People really like him at work; the smile works on most of them like a charm.  Rumour has it, he’s next in line for Director.  Well, I would’ve voted for him, if anyone had asked.  Though that would have been when my boxers were round my ankles.

He’s a serial adulterer, of course.  Did I mention he’s married?  I don’t know the background to his life and wife, though Annie in the Post Room likes to lower her eyes and whisper darkly about the Purgatory that woman has been through, and how she must have the patience of Job.  Rather religious, Annie is, and no-one listens to her very much.

So then tonight we were out celebrating the birthday of someone in Treasury, and he’d already groped me in the bogs twice already and suggested something rather more athletic in his car after closing time, so my hopes were up, or at least my dick was.  I’d invested in a packet of condoms from the toilet – unfortunately, only banana flavoured was on offer at such short notice – and was wracking my beer-fuddled brain for witty conversation to amuse him with, for when he was tugging my trousers down my calves and spreading my knees.  As usual.

Then when I turned back from the bar with a round of drinks, I’d seen him with his hand on some new young trainee from Data Input.  Not just your friendly pat on the shoulder; not just a fatherly guiding hand.  Only I could see his back as everyone else was singing the obligatory birthday song over the crowded table – only I could see the fingers slip down inside the trainee’s trousers, the material stretching gamefully to accommodate the wandering hand as it squeezed a tight young buttock.

He was moving on, sexually speaking.  He’d just forgotten to tell me about it.  Or maybe that wasn’t in his Filofax for today.  But that’s when I placed the pints down on the table, carefully avoiding anyone’s eyes, and took the side door out into the car park.

So that’s why I’m here now, having just zipped up my trousers and shoved the door key back in my pocket.

I hadn’t heard anyone else approaching but suddenly there’s a crunch of gravel behind me.  I leap back like some guilty schoolboy, my hand clamping over my fly, my brain struggling for pathetic excuses.

“Hell of a mess,” says a man’s voice.  He doesn’t sound accusing, just interested.  I look down at the puddle of piss between the side of the car and my feet.  I step back like it’s Niagara and I’ve only just noticed my toes are over the edge.

When I look back up, I don’t recognise him.  Bit of a relief, it’s not someone from work.

“Did you get splashed?” he asks.  He sounds amused, as if he knows damn well what I was doing.  Thankfully the scraping is on the far side of the car so he can’t see it from here.

Then again, what do I care if he does?  He looks a few years older than me, in smart shirt and jeans; not trendy, not not, if you know what I mean. “I’ll get over it,” I say, and then I grin.

He grins back.  He’s good-looking and the eye contact seems just that little bit too obvious to be casual.  I ought to be tempted to take things a bit further, but tonight my libido’s a little depressed, both from the drink and the drama, you understand.

He looks at his watch then over to the pub.  “I’d better get going.  Time to move on.”  He glances back at me, that grin still there.  “See you around.”

I nod.  I watch him stride off across the car park, liking the view.

Maybe my libido’s not so depressed after all.  Maybe I’m still high on the liberation thing.

I’ll get over it, I’d said to him.  Plenty of truth in that, I realise.

He’s a stranger – can’t have known what the fuck I was doing standing alone in a car park with damp patches on my shoes.  But time to move on he’d said in reply.

Guess I will, at that.  I laugh aloud, startling myself and some poor sod walking his dog across the ill-lit entrance to the pub.  I’m not a naturally vindictive guy, remember?  A moment’s self-indulgence and now I can move on.

After all, what would you have done in the circumstances?