Sex is such a terrible thing!
By Iteti, Uganda:
“Sex is a terrible thing,” he said to me, while backed away from me.
We were at his desk, in his office. My buttocks rested inside my jeans and firmly on the edge of his table. It was clear he wasn’t going to pay any attention to the documents I had brought in until he was done with what he felt he needed to do. His breath was hot and moist on my face as he spoke, making his point while holding me in place. I could not move, I could not blink, I could not scream – even though I wanted to. All I could do was swallow and smile a silly one. He was my boss’ boss from another department and he had made it clear how hot his blood run for me. Apparently it had been running for a while, his blood that is, and he needed to let me know every minute. I didn’t care for his thoughts about sex and whether or not it was terrible; I just wanted to get out of there.
His grip loosened and I made a beeline for the documents, “Mr. Sentamu needs your signature on these, sir”. My attempt at changing the subject failed because he continued to blow kisses my way, and smile. We had a brief chat about where and why he needed to sign the papers – we needed his approval to procure some equipment – and then he signed them. As I reached past the paper weight and other stationery to retrieve the signed papers, by now he had resumed his throne behind the gigantic and finely polished oak wood work desk, he grabbed my hand and began to caress it. A silence fell between us as his eyes ran over my face and settled on my chest. My necklace dangled uncomfortably in the silence, like a misplaced pendulum counting the seconds until he finished his lust fest. He let me go a little hesitantly and I walked out of his office feeling a little more violated than the last time.
Jimmy and I weren’t friends exactly; we were colleagues. He was just the guy I walked passed in the corridor and the stairwell and the cafeteria and the parking lot and said “hi” to on my way from the copy machine – his office was right next to it. He was ordinary and non-descript. He wore khakis to work on Friday and a blue tie on Wednesdays. I knew him as blue-tie-Wednesday guy and I know it doesn’t sound original but it did for a moment in my head. Jimmy was anything BUT a prince charming. He was the creepy dude you caught looking at you through the bookshelves in the library and the same guy you find standing idly outside the ladies bathroom today. I always greeted him as he walked past, but today he ran his hand down my arm. I shivered and walked away, not knowing how to handle what had happened. After repeatedly telling myself it was an accident, even though I clearly remember the extra, deliberate and seductive stroke of his arm down the length of mine, I managed to get some work done and head home.
Work the next day was fine until Jimmy came into my office, took a picture of me and made it his phone wallpaper. He said he would kiss it every night he goes to bed and hope I feel the touch of his lips whenever he does it. Gross. He came to me the next day and two days after that and then a week after that, asking for my number and wondering if I was free to have a meal with him. I said no every single time. Jimmy didn’t care, Jimmy did and said what Jimmy wanted to say and Jimmy got away with it. He said he wanted me in his bed, he said he wanted to wear my skin on his skin all day long. Jimmy took a strand of my hair and licked it and said he would never give up on “us” and he dreamed of how soft and delicate and tight my legs would feel around his waist. Jimmy still comes to my desk and he brings me cake and nuts sometimes; and when he’s gone, I throw them in the green paper basket under my desk and shiver. I savour every moment Jimmy is away from me.
Sex is such a terrible thing
It’s 2AM in the morning and my phone rings. It’s him again – the corporate director.
He calls while his wife is asleep or on his way home from work and paints a picture of how good we would be together, wrapped in each other’s arms.
He says he wants me to give him two more babies – he’s seventeen years older than me – and he’ll give me the whole world. As if my world is not enough. I hated the feel of his hands when he tried to feel me up in the elevator. I hate the sound of his voice when he calls to tell me how aroused he is. He reeks of lustful thoughts and cigars and the sweat from the stripper poles he constantly ogles.
His back pocket is always bulging from the heaviness of his wallet. I’ve always thought it’s the reason he bounces down the halls.
Today his wife came in with a basket of muffins and flowers in a vase, it was their anniversary. He smiled as they walked past me on their way out for lunch. I wished he would never come back, but he did. He called me into his office and asked for his anniversary gift, then he stood and I saw the bulge – this time, it was front and center. I smiled and without another word, went down on my knees and did exactly what he expected of me – our little afternoon routine.
Sex is such a terrible thing