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I’ve never been big on phone sex. It’s awkward, it’s embarrassing, and it requires me to do more work than simply lying on my back and faking an occasional moan. But just because I’m not big on it, it doesn’t mean that I haven’t done it — because I have. Lot’s of times. Like, probably even three or four. I know, I know. I’m a slut.
While phone sex is uncomfortable enough with the heavy breathing, the moaning, and the dirty talk that you pray to God your roommate is not overhearing, at least you can’t see the other person. For all you know, your partner is over at his/her place, wearing only socks and Crest White Strips, while balancing a carton of General Tso’s chicken on their chest. And that’s fine — because they can’t see that though you’ve been whispering “ooh, yeah, you bad boy, you like that?” you’ve actually been folding laundry and watching “The Real Housewives of Harlem” on a loop. Like I said, phone sex is pretty awful, but at least it’s not as bad as Skype sex — something I know not because I have personally ever done it, but because I once witnessed a 65-year-old security guard named Terry getting it on with an online lady friend — whom he lovingly referred to as “Nasty” — in my office, at my desk, on my Republican National Committee issued laptop.
Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.
My first job out of college was on a political campaign — and it sucked. There’s really no other word for it other than that. I worked seven days a week, fifteen to eighteen hours a day, for shit pay and no benefits. The irony is not lost on me that for a few months of my life, I was quite literally campaigning against universal healthcare while simultaneously praying to Oprah that I didn’t fall ill and deplete my bank account of all $217 currently in there. Politics, man, it’s for the spineless. And on top of all of this, on top of the roughly $2 an hour I was making and the insufferable pro-choicers and the insufferable pro-lifers and the insufferable “I just want something to fucking bitch about” people, my office was in the ghetto. And I don’t mean this in the typical “it was by a Walmart, not a Target!” white girl way, I mean that when people called my office and asked for directions, I had to tell them that we were located in the back of a desolate strip mall, smack dab between the jail and the high school for troubled youth. And adding insult to injury, there was no Target to be seen. It was truly shitty. So shitty, in fact, that I contemplated getting my concealed carry license on my third day of work. This thought, of course, was the reaction to a homeless man entering my office (where I worked alone, save for volunteers), handcuffing himself to a chair, and screaming that he wouldn’t leave until he spoke to “Mr. Barack” on the phone regarding his birth certificate. So, I did what any normal person would do, I poured whiskey in my coffee, called the police, and Googled “how to buy a gun.” Like I said, normal.
After my daily hour long phone conversation with my mom, I called my boss, because, quite frankly, I wasn’t done bitching. “I will quit, Josh. I swear to God, I will fucking quit and I will tell everyone that you smoke a bowl before meeting with constituents. I will tell them, Josh. I will fucking tell them.” It was on my seventh “fuck you to hell” jab, that Josh, my very patient boss, told me that the thought of me owning a gun was far more terrifying than asking the campaign for money for a security guard. So, the next morning at 9am sharp, I was greeted by a man in the uniform of a Secret Service Agent/”Men In Black” alien hunter, who not only drove an off duty cop car, but who carried a loaded gun on his person, a nightstick, and a walkie talkie complete with an ear piece. This was it, this was my Heaven. Watch out, Whitney Houston, this bitch had a bodyguard now, too.
My office was now under 24-hour-lockdown, meaning that I had two armed security guards each day: one from 9am to 9pm and one from 9pm to 9am. We were like the Waffle House — always open — just with more teeth and lower cholesterol. And for the most part, every guy (read: balding formal SEAL who made ten times my pay) who came into my office was nothing but lovely. They’d sit in the front part of the office, greeting volunteers, making more coffee, and keeping me company. A few of them even made phone calls — which, as Whitney said, was the “greatest gift of all.”
Arguably, my favorite security guard was a sweet, older gentleman named Terry. Terry was roughly 65, but built like the goddamn hulk. He had played pro football in Germany, then joined the military where he likely killed a lot of people, and then settled in Tampa Bay, Florida to make a shit ton of money “guarding” people like Mariah Carey and Jennifer Lopez (who, according to Terry, is a real C-U-Next-Cuntsday). Terry was one of my main night guys, meaning he typically worked Thursday – Sunday from 9pm – 9am, which just so happened to be the days that I frequently was in my office until 3 or 4am, getting ready for big weekend events. Needless to say, Terry and I became tight. He’d tease me for wearing bows and saying things like “like” and “byeeeeeeee” without actually going anywhere, and I’d have to not so subtly remind him that as a large black dude in a Republican campaign office, it scared the shit out of my elderly volunteers when he pulled his gun on anyone he didn’t know by name. Seriously, Terry, you can’t do that. Like I said, Terry and I were buds, which is why it was so weird when he didn’t return my calls or texts that one night.
After a crazy Saturday consisting of hosting 400 college student volunteers, I decided to leave my office early (i.e. at 10pm) and head home for the night. As I got into bed, glasses on, retainer in, zit cream smothered over my fast food induced breakout, I realized that I’d forgotten to send in my daily report consisting of phone calls made, doors knocked, and donations accepted to our D.C. office. Fuck. I immediately began texting Terry.
10:52pm: “Hey big guy, it’s Catie. Could you do me a huge favor and look at the notebook on the corner of my desk. There is a note that says today’s date along with all of the doors and phones and shit. Need to send in my report. Thanks!”
10:55pm: “Terry. You there?”
10:56pm: “Hellooooooooooooo? Earth to Terry.”
10:59pm: “I’m gonna kill you if I have to drive to the office and get this information myself. It will take you all of seventeen seconds to send it to me.”
11:01pm: “TERRY I WILL GET FIRED IF I DO NOT SEND THIS REPORT.”
11:07pm: “You’re such an asshole. I’m coming in. Also, I’m going by Taco Bell, you want anything?”
At 11:36pm Eastern Standard Time, I rolled into the parking lot, wearing boxers, no shoes, no bra, and a shirt that was approximately four sizes too big for me. The office had mirrored windows, meaning that it was impossible for me to see inside, and because I knew of Terry’s propensity to pull a gun for quite literally no reason, I flashed my lights six or seven times.
“TERRY. It’s ME! It’s Catie. Do. Not. Shoot. Me.”
I ran up to the front door, my car still running, and grabbed the door. It was locked. The fuck? Like I said, this was the campaign equivalent to the Waffle House; we were always open. So, I did what any rational person who hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours would do, I started banging on the door instead of going to my car and getting my keys.
“TERRY. WHAT. THE. FUCK? Open the door. TERRY. PLEASE OPEN THE DOOR.”
I immediately heard the shuffling of papers, things were getting knocked to the ground, it sounded like a circus. With one quick flip, I heard the door unlock, but Terry didn’t open it and greet me. Instead, I listened as he seemingly ran away from the door to where I assume he had been in the first place, the grunting and moaning and incessant shuffling making me more uncomfortable by the second.
I slowly opened the door with painstaking precaution. What the fuck was going on? And then I saw it. There it was. There he was. Terry. My Terry, sitting at my desk, in my chair, on my computer…and he was naked. Despite the moments of opportunity as I banged on the door and waited for him to unlock it, Terry had not bothered to put on a shred of clothing. A sock hung from a lampshade, his pants were strewn across my desk, and his bare ass was sitting atop my newly upholstered desk chair. He did, however, kindly cover his old man penis with sparkly silver boxers. Or maybe it was a shirt. I don’t know. But something silver and silky was resting atop his man parts. I prayed that that was to be decent in front of me, and not some weird sexual thing that was taking place in my presence.
It took me a moment to figure out what was going on. Honestly, I just assumed he was watching porn like a normal person. You know, if normal people watched porn at work on their supervisor’s desk. But no, Terry was not watching porn. Terry was having sex. Skype sex.
“Nasty, hold on, baby girl. Catie’s in here. She’s leaving in a second. Aren’t you, Catie?”
Oh my God. Nasty? Is Terry having Skype sex with a hooker? Is that even possible? Can you rent a hooker online? And why does she know my name? Why is he not like “Hey, random prostitute, the girl who works in this office is here, let’s put this on pause for a moment?” Nope. Instead, it was more along the lines of “Nasty, you know Catie. Well, she’s here. Let’s make her feel as wildly uncomfortable as humanly possible. We’re both old enough to be her grandparents. This won’t fuck her up or anything.” Goddamnit, Terry.
“Right, Terry. Leaving in just a second. Sorry, Nasty.”
What the fuck? What the fuck did I just do? I just addressed this woman by name. Or, by stage name, at least. I was now conversing with them while they were having sex. Oh my God. I was engaging in a three-way with Terry and Nasty.
I gathered up my notebook as fast as I possibly could, carefully moving articles of clothing and a loaded pistol pointed straight at me in the process. At no point in time did Terry every acknowledge the fact that he was naked, with a likely erect penis, while in my office. He acted completely normal. Actually, no. He acted annoyed. He was annoyed with me, as if this whole fucked up, Maury Povich-esque situation we were now in was somehow my fault. After the longest two and a half minutes of my life, I quite literally ran from my desk and into my car.
“Bye, Terry! Have fun! Sorry again! Didn’t see your penis or anything! Hehehe. I don’t think. Oh my God. You’re so naked. Haha. This is so weird. Sorry again! Good luck. Bye, Nasty!”
I arrived at work the next day right as Terry was leaving. This time, he was fully clothed. There was no mention of the fact that I had seen his naked, old man, Hulk body, or of the fact that he liked to have creepy internet sex with girls named Nasty. Nope. Terry acted like everything was totally fine. Everything, that is, except for the stain on my desk chair. Which is a shame, because I really liked that chair.