“Shit, shit, shit,” Brett cursed to himself as he hurried out of his car. His shirt was halfway tucked in, and his hair was a mess. McGriddle remnants stuck to his unshaven face, because even though he was already running late, he stopped at McDonald’s anyway, “Like an IDIOT,” he thought.
It was 9:23 a.m., and Brett was nearly an hour late for work. The lowly insurance salesman sprinted through the full parking lot of his cookie-cutter office park, past rows of deteriorated Camrys and minivans from the early 2000s. Their insides had been worn by years of carpools, spilled sodas, and lonely, middle of the night nervous breakdowns on the sides of rural highways, where they saw their owners weep onto the steering wheel, realizing they didn’t have the balls to run any farther–or pull the trigger–and therefore had to turn around to go back home.
That last part was actually only what Brett assumed. The 23-year-old did not hold his older, weathered–by life and florescent light–coworkers in high regard. He was not looking forward to dealing with their judgmental glares as he hurried to his cube.
“Yeah, I’m late! You miss an hour after every lunch sitting in the bathroom rubbing hemorrhoid cream on your ass because even though you’re alive, your body is already decomposing, you gross old cube trolls SO WHAT’S THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE?!”
At least, that’s what Brett wanted to scream. Most specifically, he wanted to shout it in the face of his bloated, middle aged, cankle monster of a coworker, Doris, who always stopped Brett to flash her lipstick stained smile and offer advice about both love and work. This advice was dispensed despite the fact that the only thing Doris had been getting consistently fucked by during the last decade was, in Brett’s estimation, the company. Unless for some reason Brett needed tips on how to properly give an obese cat its Diabetes medicine, Doris was not who he would ever seek advice from.
But Brett’s anxiety and frustration washed away as he spotted a gorgeous blonde in heels and a tight blue dress enter his office building. He knew exactly who she was: Kelly, the tight-bodied MILF of a wife to his 45-year-old boss, Zack, the monstrous douchebag who managed Brett’s division. To Brett, Kelly was multiple sexual fantasies rolled into one. Kelly was the seductive older woman, the boss’s wife and forbidden fruit, and the hot ’90s babe he had always dreamed about as a little kid.
“Kelly,” Brett thought. “What a babe. What a hot fucking ’90s name. That’s the type of chick that’d blow you at the mall.”
Blowing dudes at the mall was, in fact, how Kelly and Brett’s boss, Zack, had first met. Brett knew this because Zack had once related the story to his employees during a team building exercise at a company retreat, which skewed quickly into Zack attempting to impress his younger employees by telling stories from his own 20s.
“It was summer, ’92, I had just graduated from Arizona State. I was 23, and I drove a brand new Dodge Viper. I was hanging more pelt than Davey Crockett’s hat rack. I swear to God I was this close to finger banging Christina Applegate, but she wouldn’t wake up. I was fucking crushing it,” Zack had boasted to the group at the retreat.
According to Zack, the first time he met Kelly was while visiting his friend and fraternity brother, Lance DeBlase. Lance had failed out of school a year earlier, but found a steady living dealing coke out of the Levi’s store he managed at the mall.
“We called him Lance DePants ‘cuz of the jeans,” Zack laughed wistfully. “Oh man. He was a cool fuckin’ guy. He almost got on Real World in ’94, in San Francisco, but they already had a dude with AIDS on there so MTV didn’t wanna double up.”
Zack explained that one afternoon on a break from work, he stopped by the mall to “grab a slice” from Sbarro and “do a few lunch bumps” with Lance when his friend told him about a new girl fresh out of high school who he had working the dressing rooms. According to Lance, she gave “the best fuckin’ blowie I ever had, dude.” That new high school graduate was none other than Kelly.
“I should probably explain,” Zack interjected into his own story. “Lance didn’t have AIDS yet. He got it from some slut at a Pearl Jam concert that next December. Merry fuckin’ Christmas, right? Plus he said Kelly spit so it would have been cool anyway.”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate to call that poor girl at the concert a…that name,” Doris had interrupted with some concern.
“She gave him fucking AIDS, Doris,” Zack responded irritably. “Fucking AIDS. She fucked him on a blanket on a lawn at a Pearl Jam concert and gave him AIDS. What am I supposed to call her? Unless there were some Conquistadors that none of us knew about, hanging out at the concert and handing out AIDS infested blankets, and that’s how Lance got it, then yeah, that chick deserves to be called a slut. Fucking think, Doris.”
Zack concluded what was perhaps one of the least romantic love stories in the history of the spoken word by describing how he took a pair of tight black jeans back to the dressing room and asked Kelly for assistance.
“Long story short,” Zack said with a smirk, “I never did get those jeans on, but we both got off, and the rest is history.”
“Zack! What does this have to do with work?!” asked a horrified Doris.
“Because it’s a success story Doris, okay? We’re trying to teach you how to succeed as a company and I’m giving you an example! GOD!”
“Whatever happened to Lance?” Brett remembered asking at the retreat, wanting the story to go on forever.
“Lance…” Zack said, reflecting on the name. “R.I.P. That’s what happened.”
“How’d he die?”
Zack let out an amused, wistful sigh.
“Like a legend, that’s how. By ‘95, Lance was pretty sick with the AIDS he got at Pearl Jam, so he just said ‘fuck it.’ His plan was to do as much blow as he could and ride a motorcycle straight into the ocean, but he ODed on the way to the beach. He also couldn’t afford a motorcycle, so he was on a scooter that he stole. He crashed it on the freeway after his heart basically exploded. As soon as he fell off his scooter a tractor-trailer in the next lane pretty much obliterated his entire body. Still though, pretty boss way to go compared to some Alzheimer’s patient or something.”
“So young. So tragic,” Brett said with subtle sarcasm. “Was the funeral sad?”
“Wouldn’t know. I decided to honor Lance the way I knew he would’ve wanted. Drove down to TJ and got sucked on by this Mexican slu–I mean Kelly. My beautiful Kelly.”
That evening was the perfect summation of Zack. He was a try-hard and an asshole, and when he wasn’t desperately trying to sound cool to anyone who would listen, Zack was having metaphorical dick measuring contests with Brett, because he was the youngest guy in the office. Whenever Zack felt insecure, it meant more work and a chewing out for Brett. Those usually ended in Zack pointing out the window to his Mustang and rhetorically asking, “You wanna be the guy you are now or you wanna be the guy getting road-jays in that ride? Your choice, bud.”
Brett assumed it was only a matter of time before Zack actually asked Brett to whip it out and settle the non-existent office alpha male debate once and for all. On multiple occasions, Brett considered cruising eBay for a Dirk Diggler-esque prosthetic and wearing it to work every day until it actually happened, just to see Zack cry.
It was Brett’s hatred of Zack that made Kelly attractive to him more than anything else. Fucking Kelly would be like fucking Zack. It would be glorious gratification, a final victory. It wasn’t that Brett even wanted to compete with Zack, at least not at first, but Zack’s incessant insistence that they were somehow rivals drove Brett into it. Any kind of final victory Brett could achieve wasn’t appealing because it would have meant he won, but rather because it would have meant the whole damn thing was mercifully over.
The thought of having to deal with Zack’s bullshit as he hurried into work late almost made Brett slow down. Unfortunately he couldn’t exactly afford to lose the job. Student loans, car payments, mid-priced liquor: these things cost money that Brett barely had.
Brett raced in through the front doors without noticing the sign that instructed employees to use the stairs while the elevator lobby was being repainted. As Brett hurriedly tucked in his shirt, not minding his surroundings, he stumbled through a large, hanging, paint stained sheet and into what looked like a giant children’s fort. Large sheets guarded both entrances to the blocked off hallway and men in overalls and masks worked on the walls. Immediately Brett was overcome by the fumes, which only added to his confusion.
“What the…” Brett coughed as he covered his mouth and nose.
“We’re painting in here. You can’t be in here. Elevator’s closed, you gotta get out,” a man shouted through a mask.
Brett staggered back toward the sheet he had come through, coughing and wheezing from the fumes.
“Of course this company skimped on renovations,” Brett thought. “This shit isn’t ventilated at all.”
Brett breathed in more of the paint fumes. He became delirious. Lightheaded and weak, he pushed at the sheet, but to no avail. Finally, another masked painter came over and swung it aside for Brett.
High on paint fumes, Brett stumbled around in a daze. He could barely tell where he was. By some miracle he spotted the bathroom and struggled toward it. He felt like he had to puke, and he needed water.
Brett burst through the bathroom door just as a janitor was walking out. Brett shoved past him, threw his head into the sink, and puked. When he finished vomiting, he splashed water on his face, rinsed out his mouth, and collected himself.
“Fuck, that was intense,” Brett mumbled.
“How about we get a little more intense,” a seductive, female voice purred from behind him.
Brett shot up and looked in the mirror. There, two feet behind him, stood Kelly, leaning against the wall next to the janitor’s cart, as tight and gorgeous as she had ever looked. There was something odd and alluring about her. It was almost as if Brett was staring not at the Kelly of the present, but rather the inadvisably slutty girl who worked at a coke front mall Levi’s all those years ago.
Brett had no idea how to respond.
“What’s wrong?” Kelly asked.
“This, uh, this is the men’s room?” Brett replied.
“This is our room now.”
Kelly lunged at Brett and kissed him. They furiously made out. Brett had no idea what was happening, but it was glorious and he didn’t care.
Kelly grabbed Brett’s tie and dragged him to the handicapped stall at the end of the bathroom. They continued to kiss passionately as Kelly undid Brett’s pants. She moved slowly down Brett’s torso, slid off his boxers, and began to blow him.
“Oh my God. Holy shit, Kelly. Holy shit,” Brett exclaimed.
He reached to close the stall door, but she stopped him.
“Leave it open,” she commanded. “Leave it open.”
Kelly went back to work, and Brett leaned back to enjoy this random, terrifying, and fantastic miracle. He finally had the ultimate trump card on Zack, and in celebration Brett called out his boss’s wife’s name once more.
“Fuck yeah, Kelly!”
“OH MY GOD!”
“WHAT IN THE FUCK YOU SICK MOTHERFUCKER!”
Somewhere, in what seemed like the distance, a man and a woman were screaming at Brett. At first, they seemed far away, and their voices echoed from far away. Quickly, though, the screaming voices became louder and more intense. As the volume and sharpness grew, it was as if their screams ripped Brett from the magical dream he was living. Brett looked toward the bathroom door to see where this was all coming from, and there stood Zack, and behind him, a woman.
How could this be? How could Kelly be standing at the door? Brett’s dick was in her mouth, after all. Brett quickly looked down, and to his utter horror, where Kelly had been only a moment before, there was now a wet mop, which Brett’s erect penis was thoroughly embedded in.
“I’m going to be sick!” Kelly exclaimed as she ran out of the bathroom in disgust.
Zack was furious. His eyes were filled with rage. Brett began to hyperventilate as he searched for something, anything, to say.
Brett had no idea what was happening. He was fucking a dirty wet mop in front of his boss and his boss’s wife, as he called out the latter’s name. Then, reality dropped on him like a metric ton of bricks. It was the paint fumes. He had hallucinated everything.
Brett was so high he thought a mop was Kelly. It wasn’t Brett who tried to close the stall door before Kelly ordered him to stop. It was the janitor who tried to close the door as Brett fucked the mop, and it was Brett who screamed in the janitor’s face, “Leave it open!” while he thrust himself into the janitor’s cleaning tool. Zack and Kelly had been walking by the bathroom when they heard someone screaming Kelly’s name, and when they went to investigate, they discovered the horrible scene: Brett, balls deep in a wet mop, high on paint fumes, pretending it was Kelly.
Brett pulled up his pants and looked up at Zack, resigned to his fate. Surely he was about to fired.
“You want to fucking explain yourself?” Zack demanded.
Brett didn’t know what to say, so he simply told Zack the truth. That he was high as shit and hallucinated that the mop was Zack’s wife, which led to him fucking said mop.
Zack looked Brett up and down. His eyes were still filled with rage, but, suddenly, his furious stare lightened, and he laughed hysterically.
“Ah holy shit, man. That’s…that’s some shit. You know who you remind me of? Lance! You remind me of fucking Lance, you crazy fucker! This is such a Lance thing to do. I knew I liked you! Let’s do lunch. I’m fast tracking you, you sick son of a bitch. Me and you, we’re gonna be a power team, just like me and Lance used to be. Come on, let’s hit a fuckin’ Chili’s and talk about your future.”
Two weeks later Brett was given a promotion, his own office, and a raise. A month after that, during a barbeque at Zack’s house, Kelly sucked Brett’s dick for real. You can take the girl out of the coke front mall Levi’s dressing room…