Sounds serious, but I do not care. It's a problem for the company, not for me. All that matters to me is, the slight and barely noticeable ‘remodeling’ of our office is finished, so I was back at my counter-space this morning, which now has more electrical outlets and somewhat better lighting than before. It's the same countertop, though, and the same chair.
Also same as before, my chair is a little too far from Kallie, but close enough for Carlotta to talk dirty to me without anyone overhearing. She loves naughty talking, and she no longer shyly uses letters, C for cunnilingus like we're on Sesame Street. Today she said exactly what she meant, sometimes with hand gestures and sound effects.
She wanted to talk about men she’s seen masturbating in public — strangers and urban perverts — in a supermarket’s parking lot, once in high school, once in a movie theater, and twice on BART (one circumcised, she said, and the other not). Are there that many deviants and degenerates desperate to be caught, or was she exaggerating the count for my benefit? I guess pervs are a downside of being an attractive woman.
I am still mystified why Carlotta tells me these things, but when she does it's the next best thing to having a sex life, so — by all means, tell.
"Do you talk to other men about stuff like this?" I asked her, and tilted my head down the counter toward our co-worker Peter, and one of the male temps.
"I know you better than them," she said, "and you're more fun."
In a spirit of fun, then, I confessed to Carlotta that I’ve masturbated in some unusual places. Most men
probably have, especially any man who claims he hasn’t. Decorum matters, though, so I’ve always made certain nobody could see or suspect what I was doing. Right now, for example, I'm typing this with just one hand, but I would never tell that to anyone.
At other jobs, I’ve had disgusting conversations with other men,
because men are disgusting, everyone knows that. It’s entirely
different, though, when a gorgeous and unattainable woman whispers the word
‘sperm’ in my ear. It was a high point of my day, of my existence, but I still don't know... why me?
♦ ♦ ♦
Lottie and I took our afternoon break together, and she hesitated before broaching another delicate subject. Her reticence worried me — without warning this woman barrels straight into a conversation about seeing men and boys whack their willies, so what’s so delicate that she's unsure whether to say it?
Carlotta thinks I should ask Kallie out. On a date.
After ascertaining that bringing it up was Carlotta’s idea, and not any kind of a ‘message’ from Kallie, I gave Lottie the same answers I’ve given myself — obviously, I’m fat and smelly and accustomed to my solitude and wary of rejection, but also ya shouldn’t date people from work, and Kallie and I are just friends, and she’s too spiritual for me and I hate all that cosmic crap.
“Excuses, excuses,” Carlotta said.
“Maybe,” I replied, “but if there’s ever anything between Kallie and I, Kallie would have to make the first move.” I hope Carlotta relays that message, but I didn’t ask her to.
From Pathetic Life #8
Monday, January 23, 1995
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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