Saturday, October 08, 2005
The Perfect Sturm und Drang
I'd Like to Partner with a Partner
I spent my years of sexual awakening as a student in an all-boy Catholic high school in Memphis (which is not unlike being a diabetic locked inside a candy store), so I have a long history of searching out fodder for my sexual fantasies in my surroundings. There are a couple of partner's at my law firm that I'd really like to have sex with. I wouldn't want either one of them to ruin it by talking, but at the same time, my attraction to them isn't strictly limited to physical desire.
When I first started working at the firm, I thought the first partner was flirting with me. He introduced himself to me the first time he saw me, and he would always greet me enthusiastically every time he passed my desk. He's a little older (late 40's, I'd guess) but still quite attractive, and so he really piqued my interest, even though he's married with children. I tried to strike up conversations with him, but then I noticed that, in spite of friendly and gregarious manner, he would cut me off short and go upon his way. He would ask me questions, but then brush me off as I tried to answer. Slowly I realized that he's just a huge phony and as slick as if the cat had licked him. He's one of those guys who wants to be seen as everybody's friend, and that kind of insincerity sickens me! But I will say this for the man, he's got a really sweet ass!
The other partner is a handsome blonde man, also in his forties. On my first day on the job, he greeted me with genuine warmth, which I truly appreciated. All in all, however, he's kind of a bitch and an egotistical, pedantic nit-picker. He believes that there is only one way to do everything, his way, and he ridicules anyone who doesn't do things exactly as he would have done them as an ignorant bastard. (In truth, there's a lot of ambiguity in the law—That's why there's lawyers.) He's constantly spouting off with his legal "war stories" and trying to demonstrate just what a genius he is. Frankly I would tag him as a good candidate for a diagnosis of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. On more than one occasion I've wanted to blurt out, "Look, I realize that your mother must have dominated you as a child and that your wife probably whips you at home, but don't take it out on me here at work!" Regardless, he's sometimes a decent guy to talk to, and he's been my fantasy du jour of late. (Replacing my fantasy of one of the middle-aged messenger's at the firm being my "prison bitch," but that's a *whole* other story!) Yesterday this partner and I were discussing crappy jobs we've held in the past, and he was telling stories about the summer he worked as a mover. Whenever they had to move large, heavy pieces of furniture, one guy would tilt it and then another guy would have to catch it. He said that the professional movers he was working with would always make him be the catcher. And I was thinking to myself, "Yeah, I'd like to make you be my catcher!" (I'm a top, you see.) Get it?!? Pitcher/catcher! Top/bottom! Ha Ha Ha!
"Well, remind me not to tell that one again when I'm sober."
"Chance would be a fine thing."
--Patsy & Saffy, Absolutely Fabulous
Speaking of work, the other two junior paralegals (one a divorcee in her fifties, the other a woman about my age) both announced their engagements last week. I'm trying hard not to be petty, but it's hard not to be a little jealous. I always seem to be the eternal "fifth wheel" in my social situations, even in my own family. People in the office kept coming up to me and saying that I must be next, to which I responded that I'd have to have a date first. Upon hearing of their announcements, my boss e-mailed the three of us and asked if there was something in the air or water. She went on ask if anyone had given that something to me. I replied to all with "*sigh* Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!" My boss then e-mailed me that "One day your Prince will come..." which, if you think about it, was both touching and pathetic.
Viva Las Vegas
A couple of weeks ago, my parents flew to Las Vegas to meet up with a bunch of friends they know from Baton Rouge. I met them there the weekend before the rest of the group arrived for a visit. My parents and I had a really good time together, and I managed not to fuck things up. However, my parents are so bizarre. I tested the water by mentioning how Governor Schwarzeneggar was expected to veto the same-sex marriage bill passed by the California legislature. My father said that he didn't care, since he was against same-sex marriage. And that hurt my feelings. But later my father offered to buy me a ticket to see the "Thunder from Down Under" male strip show! Neither he nor my mother would go with me, but they would pay my way if I wanted to see it. (The poster did say "Gentlemen are welcome.") I didn't take him up on his offer since I have no desire to see beefcake strippers. Excalibur played advertisements for the show on monitors throughout the casino, and I remember watching in disgust as women (and, I guess, men) in the audience would reach up for their chance to paw and grope the performers. I still have a shred of dignity and would like to hold onto it. As far is Las Vegas is concerned, I didn't have much use for it. I have a low tolerance for overstimulation, and all of the crowds and buzzing lights and drunken weirdos didn't do much for me. Everyone I spoke to was surprised that I had never been, seeing how I've been in Los Angeles for five years, but I'm not in any hurry to go back.
The Metrosexual Agenda
I've noticed that our society's shallowness about looks has hit a new low. While I was driving to Las Vegas, I saw a billboard for some wrestling event featuring a muscle-bound hunk with beautiful eyes. Maybe being from the South makes me more aware of these things, but whatever happened to the big, hairy, ugly roughnecks? Nowadays, race car drivers and country singers are all pretty boys, and even boxers and wrestlers (as evidenced above) are gorgeous pieces of man-meat. Personally, I blame Jeff Gordon and Garth Brooks!
Boys, But No Toys
Actor boy came into the store today. In a way it was a good thing...I was so afraid that I'd creeped him out bad enough last time that he was never going to come in on a weekend again. Of course, it was also bad because I can personally guarantee that he's never going to call me, as a friend or otherwise. I tried to play it all cool. I did my best to be friendly and forthcoming, while maintaining an even hand. A couple of weeks ago I reached out to waiter boy in the form of an e-mail saying that I would be more than happy to get together with him as just friends. Several days later he e-mailed me back and said that he'd love to get together sometime, but right now he was just "so busy." I didn't respond because I wasn't sure he isn't just shining me on while playing the "nice guy." I figure if he'd really like to get together again, he'll contact me.
The Fairy's Tooth
One last item in this hodge-podge of an entry. I've had a lot of cavities in my life. Part of it is genetics and part of it is the fact that depression tends to make you apathetic about taking care of yourself. As a result, all eight of my molars are nothing more than hollowed-out teeth around a core of filling. Various dentists have explained that, as I grow older (Isn't that charming!), the remaining tooth portion grows weaker until eventually they'll give out. A couple of days ago, for the second time in my life, this happened, and a portion of one of my top back molars broke off. It's truly disgusting, and my tongue is constantly drawn to scrape against what feels like a huge, gaping hole. It seems as if this would be excruciating, but in fact I didn't have any pain whatsoever. Of course, that didn't stop me from angling the situation into a prescription for Vicodin. (This blog was originally supposed to be a chronicle of my efforts to stay relatively sober and improve my life, but such is the way of this wicked world.) At first, the dentist only prescribed 600 mg Motrin®. I mean, come on! Motrin®?!? Needless to say, I called him up to tell him how it wasn't helping my terrible pain, and (in what was probably an effort to shut me up) he called me in some Vicodin. "The squeaky wheel gets the drugs!" During the course of the day yesterday (while I was high at work), I started to think about how a lot of addicts such as myself would choose narcotics over sex, much in the same way studies have shown that mice will forego food in order to continually press a lever that stimulates their brains' pleasure center until they actually starve to death. Particularly in light of my OCD, I have a lot less hangup's about narcotics than I do about sex. So in that same spirit I present to you...
Three reasons Vicodin is better than a man*:
- Vicodin is always gone after you've had your fun.
- Vicodin doesn't ask you to compare it to other drugs you've taken.
- Vicodin doesn't make you sleep on the wet spot.
Of course, there's always a darker side to everything, which brings me to...
One reason a man is better than Vicodin:
- Vicodin always expect you to swallow.
*Many, if not most of these, were consciously or unconsciously stolen from the book Why Cucumbers Are Better Than Men.