by Chuck Austen
“I ain’t admirin’. I’m waitin’.”
“What? These, too?”
“They wet?”
I considered. “Damp.”
“Gimme.”
I paused, perhaps a beat too long, and she reached for them. I recoiled and my voice rose to a chirpy soprano.
“I can do it,” I said petulantly.
Trying my best to keep everything as tucked away as I could under the circumstances, I removed the silken boxers and handed them over.
Mrs. Abrososa—Agrapanthila—looked at them with revulsion.
“Haines?”
I shrugged, humiliated. “They’re softer than ours.”
She grumbled and headed for the door carrying my shame, stopping briefly in the open entryway to turn back to me.
“It’s sort of sad, really,” she said, glancing down. Not the sort of thing one wants to hear as a woman studies your privates. “She seemed kind of impressed with it, before you went and molested her.” “Impressed?”
“Oh, yeah. You two might have made a real cute couple.”
I felt suddenly flush with the thought of Ms. Nuckeby asking me to bare my boyhood for her—smiling and reaching for it.
“Right up until she sued you for everything you got,” my evil secretary concluded.
My fantasy degraded as Ms. Nuckeby stopped reaching and just pointed, laughing riotously at my shriveling crotch while rolling around naked in my inheritance. Somehow even that was erotic.
Gloop.
Mrs. Abrososa exited, laughing hysterically.
Rather abruptly my immediate situation overwhelmed me. Naked from the waist down. In a place of business. Erect. After having—mere moments before—sexually assaulted an attractive female employee. It was a rather compromising position. Someone might come by and see. Someone with authority. Someone who’d prefer that, while engaged in my profession, I wore pants.
What if ‘someone’ was already on their way? A representative from Human Resources with anti-harassment literature, disapproving looks, and things I’d have to sign while not wearing underwear? Or the police to discuss my lewd and lascivious behavior—or worse—to arrest me and haul me downtown in my overexposed state? Or perhaps Ms. Nuckeby’s Schwarzenegger-like father with a machete in one hand, an Uzi in the other, and a cigar to light the explosives he was going to shove up my ass?
Terrified, I called out through the door.
“Mrs. Abrososa? How long do you think it’s going to take?”
“Gimme half an hour,” she replied.
I felt a jolt run through me. I couldn’t stay in here—literally bucknaked—while SWAT teams converged on the area! I looked around, nervously trying to figure out what to do next when the phone rang.
And rang.
“Are you going to get that?” I called.
No answer. Must have gone into the bathroom, or the closet, or the company kitchen to show off my skid marks to other employees.
I looked at the phone. Internal line. Reasonably safe. Besides that, all the tension was ‘felling the old redwood’, if you get the supreme subtlety of my meaning, so I felt less perverted and more able to pick up the receiver.
So I did.
And heard the sound of an indescribably sexy voice on the other end.
“Mister Wopplesdown?” Pronounced correctly.
Gloop.
“Yes.”
“Mister Cor-CAR-an Wopplesdown?”
Well, .500 ain’t bad.
“Corky. Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Um…sir? This is Ms. Nuckeby.”
‘Mini-Me’ noisily banged a cup of pencils off my desk. “What was that? Is everything all right?”
“Fine, Ms. Nuckeby, fine,” I said as if, for all the world, I still wore pants. “What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know if you know who I am, sir, but…“
“Of course I know who you are, Ms. Nuckeby. You’re the model. The one wearing…”
“No top.”
I breathed deeply and fought to keep blood vessels from bursting in my brain. “Yes. Satin-Lace-Babydoll # 43 with no…no…no…em…correct.” I turned nervously, and my ugly stepson slammed the phone’s cradle to the floor where it clanged, banged, and ranged.
“Did something fall?” she asked. “What’s that ringing? Do you have to answer another line?”
“Yes. No! Something…uh…I have a…uh.” I picked up the phone cradle Polyphemus had trashed in his blind rage and tried to silence the ringer, “…the phone got…uh…hit by…” there appeared to be no off-switch, “…knocked down by…” damn, where was the “…it fell. It fell, somehow, all by itself, and…” I smacked the noisy thing against the desk, and it shattered into a million pieces, one of which continued to ring pathetically. “Sorry. All good. Speak.”
“Woof.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just kidding. I…uh…I wanted to come by and see you, sir. I…”
“No!”
She paused. Struck.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I was hoping that if I saw you…”
“I’d rather you didn’t come to see me, Ms. Nuckeby.”
“Oh.”
“Right now, I mean. Parts of me at least. All of me. What there is of me to see.” I sucked air. In lots of ways. “Now is just not a good time.”
“Then when might be? See, I was hoping maybe I could buy you lunch, and we could discuss…em…”
What? Settlements?
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Another pause. “I see,” she said finally.
I flushed again, but from a different kind of distress. “I didn’t mean…what I meant to say was: I’m in the middle of something.” I looked down angrily at my throbbing, insistent little friend. “An unexpected guest has popped up in my office and is demanding my undivided attention.”
Her voice fell. “Oh.”
“He and I—we have other pants. PLANS!”
I repeatedly bit my tongue, angrily punishing it for its failure to get off its lazy ass and do its job properly.
“Oh. He?” she said, sounding—what—I don’t know—relieved? “Of course. I understand. Then maybe we can schedule another time?”
“Ooooh, I don’t know, I…it’s probably best if you talk to my lawyer.”
“Your lawyer?”
“He’s much more equipped for this sort of thing than I am. He’s intelligent.”
“Well, you see, this is what I was afraid of, Mister Wopplesdown…” She paused a moment as if carefully considering her financial demands and my greater malleability over lunch as opposed to facing actual legal counsel with functioning brains that didn’t have to struggle with competing thoughts of her mostly naked. “See, that was just a really strange and awkward situation down in the storage closet, just now…”
“Garment Viewing Room.”
“What?”
“It’s called the Garment Viewing Room. It’s not a storage closet.”
“Really? It seemed more like some kind of storage…”
“I would never force you into a storage closet, then make you stay there naked. I mean, while you were naked. I wasn’t naked. I had pants on then. And now, too, if you must know. You were naked, true, mostly, but I was just…”
“See, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I think you have the wrong impression of me. If you would just see me for a moment…”
“Honestly, Ms. Nuckeby,” I said, throbbing at the memory of already having seen most of her. “I saw all of you I need to see. I MEAN…”
“Oh!”
“That came out wrong!”
“No, I’m sure it didn’t. I’m truly sorry to have bothered you Mister Wopplesdown.”
Click.
“Ms. Nuckeby? MS. NUCKEBY!”
Why I yelled louder, as if somehow the sound might actually explode out the other end of a disconnected line, I don’t know, but I’m a man, and as I’ve said, when an attract
ive woman is involved, the brain farts. I just desperately needed to reconnect with Ms. Nuckeby and tell her I was sorry, please don’t sue me and take away all my money, and, oh, by the way, let’s make lots of babies together. So I refused to be deterred by the fact that her extension was already resting in a cradle somewhere deep inside the building.
Wait.
Somewhere deep inside the building.
I looked at the reader phone and read the extension.
4912.
I ran around the desk, grabbed my address book and looked through the various numbers.
4912. Henri Manschingloss. We still hadn’t changed the directory to reflect his insistence that he was now a single-named celebrity.
I dialled.
“Manschingloss,” he said with clear irritation.
“Henri, is…”
“Manschingloss.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Manschingloss. Is Ms. Nuckeby there?”
“Why? Did you want to be rude to her some more?”
“I wasn’t rude to her.”
“Then why was she crying?”
“She was crying?”
“Actual tears. She stained my crinoline.”
“Can I speak to her, please?”
“You could. But she’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Shopping. The movies. Nude horseback riding, perhaps?” He paused. Waiting for a laugh I suppose. It didn’t come. Not from my end. “Home, I would imagine,” he continued. “She’s a good model you know. Dedicated and professional. Not like some of the prima donna flakes we usually get around here. You could have forgiven her.”
“Forgiven her what?”
“The topless thing! It wasn’t her fault she walked in wearing only half an outfit. I was fixing a stay. She didn’t even know there was a top. Sometimes there isn’t you know.”
“I do know. Of course I know. Our designs are sometimes barely even clothes.”
“My designs are more than clothes.”
The mounting tension in his voice thickened the air around me and ate at my life force like some evil Star Trek vampire alien. A really ugly, cheap-looking one from the original series.
“Of course they are, Hen…Manschingloss,” I said. “They’re beyond all, verbal description. But back to Ms. Nuckeby. She was upset because…” I found it hard to believe. “…because she was topless?”
“Why else?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Lots of reasons, I suppose. None of them litigious. Perhaps she didn’t like the room, or Mrs. Abrososa, or…”
“…your preference for fucking plastic?”
Okay, that hurt.
“Really, Corky. Water bottles? Ugly men with no fashion sense? God knows what else. There are other options you know,” he said with significance.
“I keep telling you, I’m straight.”
“I know. You keep telling me,” he said seductively. “The closet is a lonely place, Corky.”
“The water bottle thing happened because of my reaction to Ms. Nuckeby.”
He paused, apparently confused. “What reaction?”
“The…you know…the erection reaction.”
“You got an erection because of a girl?”
“Yes, because of a girl!”
“Wow. I figured you were thinking about me. Or Mervin.”
“I—am—straight!”
“Since when?”
“Since always!”
“Then what about that video?”
“You’ve seen the video?”
“It’s on my desktop right now. I watch it all the time.”
I heard him click something with a computer mouse and pause while he absorbed.
“That video is not allowed on company property.”
“You did this, and you claim to be straight.”
“I’d been drinking!”
“Alcohol reduces inhibitions, Corky. It doesn’t change your orientation.”
“I thought he was a girl!”
“He has a beard.”
“I’m straight, I’m straight, I’m straight! Can we get back to Ms. Nuckeby?”
“You got an erection because of a girl—then made her stay and watch you do the nasty to a water bottle?” He paused and considered it. “She should sue.”
“No, she shouldn’t,” I said, my voice squeaking as a life of potential moneylessness flashed before me like an independent film with big name actors about ugly, drunken, mean people; the ‘arty’ kind of movie everyone thinks is ‘brilliant’, and ‘moving’, and a ‘surefire winner’ because they don’t actually have to live it.
Then, finally, something in his answers seeped through the porridge I like to call a brain.
“Is that why she called?” I asked, choking on the words. “To sue?”
“What, Wisper? No! She called because she was afraid she had done something wrong by walking in mostly naked. She was afraid she’d get fired. I tried to tell her that if she could make a homosexual hard, she should be extremely proud. But maybe not so much.”
“Uuumm. Manschingloss. Does she think I’m gay?”
“Everyone thinks you’re gay. There’s video, remember?”
“I thought he was a girl!”
“And you claim a pretty thing like Wisper got you hard. Can you understand our confusion?”
“I was drunk!”
“In the Viewing Room?”
“In Mervin’s locker! I…” Suddenly something hit me. “Wait a minute. Did you show her the video?” I asked, humiliated, clasping my hands over my face and saying a silent prayer that even Manschingloss could never be that thoughtless.
“Of course I showed it to her.”
“Of course you did. So she thinks I’m gay. And that I like hairy men. And that I’m going to fire her.”
“Boy, does she. Which is good. Otherwise she’d sue.”
I considered what he’d said and realized he was probably right. She would never want to go to court and have it on the public record that the idiot who could mistake a hairy man for a woman—even when drunk—had become sexually aroused by her. I suppose I should have left well enough alone at that point, but I really have no common sense.
“How can I get in touch with her?” I asked.
“Why?”
“I need to talk to her.”
“About what?”
Good question.
“Do you have her number?” I asked.
“What am I? HR?”
Then I heard horrifyingly familiar, intimate moaning and slurping sounds in the background.
“Sooo.” Manschingloss asked, clearly distracted. “You’re not gay?”
I hung up and called HR. They had no home phone number for Ms. Nuckeby. She had come to them through one of the smaller agencies outside the city, and they wanted me to remind her, when next I saw her, that she still hadn’t given them her tax ID number. I made a mental note to do so, filed it under ‘Things To Promptly Forget’ and hung up, very frustrated, in more ways than one. I was about to call Manschingloss and fire him just because he used crinoline, when a nagging thought in the back of my brain bitchslapped me.
Manschingloss was two floors above me. I could still reach Ms. Nuckeby before she escaped the building.
I raced for the doors of my office, threw them open and ran out into the usual madness beyond: secretaries, designers, seamstresses, delivery men, all of whom gasped and screamed because I was still naked from the waist down.
I ran back into my office and slammed the door behind me. Even more frustrated I began pacing, which only added injury to insult because all my thinking about the potential nearness of Ms. Nuckeby had brought the little general to attention again, and it kept bumping objects, getting caught in things and knocking breakables off my desk. It was like it had a mind of its own and was trying to do it, the little prick.
Heh. Funny. I didn’t mean to do that.
I was just about to call security and have Ms. Nuckeby physically res
trained from leaving the building when Grandfather burst in, an apoplectic Yosemite Sam in a tailored business suit with a face like a cherry red, out-of-tune piano.
“What’s this I hear about you fucking a water bottle in public?” he yelled, not really asking—other than rhetorically.
“It’s not…”
“Is it true you performed some kind of sordid sex act in front of one of our models?”
“Sordid? Nooooo… ”
“Trying to impress some young hottie who’s modeling for us?”
“Trying to impress? If I were endeavoring to impress some ‘young hottie’ as you so eloquently put it…”
“’Endeavoring?’ ‘Eloquently?’ Speak English, you damned re- tard! This is what I get for sending you to Oxland.”
“Oxford.”
“Shut up! I gave you this job because you were the one person I thought I could trust not to cross the line! You know: The line!”
“I am aware of the line,” I said, staring at him and seething a bit myself. The only reason he thought he could trust me with the models was because he—and everyone else in the company, apparently—still thought I was a homosexual. Or at least bisexual with a leaning toward men. Damned Miller Lite. “And I haven’t crossed any…”
“Oh, you’re a lawyer now, are you?”
I didn’t answer. He knew I wasn’t. Or was fairly certain. He was never really clear on exactly what I’d achieved at ‘Oxland’.
“We can’t afford another lawsuit, Corcharan. I made that clear when I gave you the job, and I thought that you—of all the family members available, including that damned, bush-diver you call a sister—could control yourself!”
“I have it on good authority she isn’t planning to sue. And until now, I think I’ve controlled myself quite admirably considering the circumstances, thank you very…”
“So you’ve been good up till now, and you figured it was the perfect time to start sticking your dick into water bottles…”
“I didn’t do it on purpose!”
“…in some sordid, attempt at foreplay?”
“Foreplay?”
“You’re not intending to date her, are you?”
“What? Date her? I’d be lucky if she could think of my name without laughing, let alone…”
“As a beard, or something?”
“I am not a homosex…”