The Little Victories That I Take Pride In

Look, despite my happy-go-lucky, slap-happy Irishman looks, I’m a miserable, cantankerous bastard. I’d like to blame the drinking or the women or the cold hard lessons I learned in Vietnam but the inescapable fact is, I’m something of a buffoon at times. More often than not, beer is the catalyst.

But I’m working on it, you see. For example, I’ve long been regarded as the office perv. The guy whose head swivels like a county fair carousel when a hot intern crosses his path. Who lingers a bit too long in the lush company workout room when there are female co-workers present. Who once hired a girl whose resume noted that she was the reigning “Miss East Coast Fitness” and could fit a Buick Skylark in her mouth. So one of my career objectives is, quite frankly, to be less like that guy.

Thing is, I’m starting to realize that being “that guy” may have comprised the bulk of my already limited appeal. To illustrate, last month, my boss informed me that I’d be spending the better part of September working at our office in Virginia. That was not a bad thing, as I saw it, because Kristy, the woman who ran that office, was not only a good friend of mine and outlandishly spectacular drinkin’ partner, she was also the owner of one of the most majestic derrieres I have ever encountered in the corporate world. I’m talking the motherfucking thing looks like it was carved from marble: impossibly round, spiraling gloriously like a national monument from the small of her back, and hypnotizing menfolk with every twist of her hips.

And she was quite aware of this last point, no doubt in part due to my alcohol-fueled odes to her expertly-sculpted buttocks, which she took with a smile and a nod and, I’m sure, a quiet note to have me shot, beaten or fired at some point in the future.

So when my boss gave me my assignment, I nodded and accepted it, silently doing cartwheels in my mind. And then she noted, “Kristy’s excited about it too, because she said when she hangs with you, you make her feel like a rock star.”

That was the slap back to reality. Because, seriously, that’s all I was doing. Hanging out with these slightly unhinged office chicks, getting sauced and revved up, blathering on and on about how hot they were, and pumping up their egos. Suddenly, I understood why HR meets regularly to discuss “the Ken problem,” and I was determined to change my ways. I was going to Virginia, and, goddam it, I wasn’t gonna say word one about that ass.

My first day in Happy Virginny, Kristy picks me up at the airport, wearing a skirt so tight that as she bent down to get into her car, I shielded my eyes from possible denim shards. And I never mentioned her ass.

Second day, she greets me at the office wearing pants so fitting it looks like she basically painted herself black from the waist down. The same pants she has on that night when she takes me out for after-work drinks. And I never mentioned her ass.

On my last night there, she took about 8 of us out for post-work drinks. Everyone gets sloppy and, one by one, they fall out of the ranks. Soon, it’s just me and Kristy. She’s dropping things, bending over left and right, shaking her ass to the music and doing that thing that hot white women in their late 30s do when they’re drunk and not quite sure what else to do. She even pulls the classic “did I sit in something?” maneuver–always a favorite of mine–and waves her ass in my face for inspection. I gave it the once-over, gave a thumbs-up, and ordered another drink on the company tab. I drank it, thanked her for the hospitality over the last few weeks, and wished her a happy October. Then we got up, got into her car, drove to my hotel, and she dropped me off. And not once, over a three week stretch, did I say anything about her ass.

Sure, once I got back to my room that night I masturbated furiously for roughly four hours thinking about it–to the point that I swore I’d fractured my wrist. But I never said a thing.

And it’s the little victories such as these that get me through the work week.

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