Sunday, August 26, 2012

Diary Of A Degenerate 5

When I got home I finished the job I started at the adult book store, drowning out the world with a too-loud playing of Otis Redding's Tramp. I was hoping someone on the floor would pound on the wall and complain, but no such luck. I washed my hands and headed out to the bar.

I was two beers and three whiskeys in before I got the mojo going and started harassing the women. Two walked away before I found one with low enough self esteem to talk to me. I played the gentleman and complimented her. When she pretended to be modest and said she wished she had a chance to clean up after work before going out I leaned in and audibly sniffed her and said, "I disagree. You don't smell dirty enough" When she smiled I knew I had her.

I pumped drinks into her until closing time and then tried to convince her to come to my place and fuck. She resisted hard enough to indicate she thought I was some kind of serial killer or something, but I eventually got her into my back seat. Her breath fogged up the glass until the bar owner banged on it and told us to beat it. Luckily I came inside her before she had a chance to scurry out the passenger door and run off to her car. She was a good lay but she had kind of shallow pussy. It was either only four inches deep or took a hard left that stopped me cold in mid-thrust. On the way home I got all sentimental and thought about marrying her and having kids and shit. I make myself sick sometimes.

I spent the better part of sunday examining my dick and convincing myself she gave me herpes. It was probably just friction burns, something I suffered from weekly but was too paranoid to realize on the fly. Despite my distress I slept well. Well enough to barely make it to work in the morning.

My manager was waiting for me when I came in. He always stood up straight when we spoke, trying desperately not to be five inches shorter than me, and he had terrible breath. His breath was bad enough to inspire self awareness, and besides, he had a wife! There's no way he doesn't know about it. When I have booze on my breath I at least have the decency to exhale through my nose, for christ's sake.

"I need to schedule you for some overtime" he said. "And don't give me any grief, okay? This is coming all the way from corporate, so it's mandatory." Only assholes used the word "grief" like it was a proper curse word. And he was certainly an asshole.

"You know what Wayne?" I said. He went by Scott but his real name was Wayne. "Go fuck yourself!" I looked him straight in the eye when I said it. With a look that forced him to acknowledge that I was more powerful than he was. And more angry. He threatened me with his only power, an HR meeting, before I walked past him and gathered the shit from my desk and walked out. And that was the end of that career.

I celebrated the loss of employment with eight 2oz shots of hard proof rum and a three hour nap on my carpet. When I awoke I couldn't have felt better about it.


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