Posted by Big Fat Hairy Dave at 8:48 pm under Sex and Work 4 Comments
I’m writing this on the way home from work, having only just left at eight o’clock. The commute to and from work is about an hour and ten minutes, a good half hour longer than the commute at the job before this one. The best thing I can say about the commute is that I’ve gotten used to it: I’m commuting from downtown to the suburbs, so I’m against the flow of traffic and I always get a seat. I use the time to read, listen to music, and sometimes work. Occasionally I just stare into space and think.
I haven’t written about work much lately, mostly because I think I’ve finally come to something of an understanding about it. I’ve realized that after three years here, I’m as secure as I’ll ever be. I’ve grown confident enough in my abilities that I’ve stopped worrying and stopped listening to my over-active imagination. I always used to think of my worrying as a kind of workplace survival instinct: the fear and wondering “How can I save my job now?” when I made mistakes or missed deadlines. I’ve gotten better at trying not to worry needlessly, and I’ve gotten better when it comes to making mistakes and missing deadlines, something my manager told me that he recognized earlier this year. I still goof off and make mistakes, but I think I’ve got things under control. It’s as good as it’s gonna get.
•
After six o’clock, all the exits other than the employee entrance are locked. That means walking the length of the building, which takes me right by the shipping and receiving area. There’s a fat little cubby piglet who works there (He looks like a shorter Mike Mauro). It’s unfortunate that we don’t get to interact more, but I can only come up with so many excuses to visit shipping and receiving.
Tonight I ran into him as he was leaving for the night, walking out of the shipping and receiving area. But instead of heading straight to the exit, he turned left to go to the washroom right next to it.
I followed him as he went into the washroom and he lumbered up to the urinals. There are only two urinals in that washroom, and he chose the one on the right. That’s the perfect choice: since most people are right handed, any guy who holds his cock with his right hand gives sluts on the left a better chance at getting a good look.
I took the pisser next to him and watched as he finished doing the belt-button-pants thing, one hand resting on his thigh and his other hand on his cock. His pubes were spilling out and he held a cute little uncut cock in his hand, the foreskin still covering the whole thing. I almost rotated my eyes out the side of my head watching him hold his cock at right the tip of its head while he pissed out his pointy foreskin.
Even though he doesn’t have a wedding ring, he’s totally straigt. He didn’t give off even the slightest hint of exhibitionism and he didn’t show any interest in what I was doing. That’s all right, though, since I still got to see his. I wonder if he has a girl who appreciates how hot he is.
I finished when he finished, and went to wash my hands just as he tucked his cock into his underwear. As we silently washed our hands together, he noticed me glancing at him in the mirror. “Hey,” he greeted me. “Hey,” I replied.
We left the washroom and walked out the employee exit. “Good night,” I finished with. As he turned to the lot where his truck was parked, he replied “Night. See ya.” At least I got a little reward for working late.
I’ve been spending the past few weeks thinking about my sister. (She’s older than me.) The last few times I’ve seen her at lunch with her and my mother, she’s been creeping me out.
My relationship with my sister is good, though we’ve never been particularly close. It’s mostly just because we’re very different from each other: I’m gay and partnered and go out and do things, and she’s asexual and single and never goes out. I have friends in real life and all her friends are on the fan fiction web boards she frequents. I have my own apartment downtown. She still lives with our parents. I like hot guys. She likes Richard Dean Anderson. I mean likes Richard Dean Anderson.
The past few years, she’s been getting weirder and weirder. At Christmas, when Mark got me a book on dinosaurs, she offered without being asked that she “can’t see how birds came from dinosaurs.” There are weird Bibles and Gospel of John DVDs in her room. And the last time I saw her, I had to defend Stephane Dion’s green shift to her (”It’s just a tax grab,” she said, parroting Conservatard talking points). She had me defending Stephane Fuckin’ Dion.
When I started thinking about her growing weirdness a few weeks ago, I wondered what I should do. I ended up realizing that there’s nothing I can do except keep my mouth shut as she descends into weird virginal, fan fiction writing wackaloonery. At least I won’t be losing someone I was very close to. That makes me a bit happy and a bit sad.
My friend Bill is in town from Victoria for a wedding and he’s staying with me for a few days. I took him out for lunch today and we walked around the city a bit.
Bill is one of cutest, sweetest guys I know. I wish we weren’t on opposite sides of the country.
A vote for the conservatives … is a vote for narrow-mindedness. A vote for cuts to culture. A vote for war and for slavery to oil corporations. Do one simple thing and you can stop all this. Join us and vote for the NDP.
Asked what work John McCain did as chairman of the Senate Commerce Committee that helped him understand the financial markets, the candidate’s top economic adviser wielded visual evidence: his BlackBerry.
“Telecommunications of the United States is a premier innovation in the past 15 years, comes right through the Commerce Committee. So you’re looking at the miracle John McCain helped create and that’s what he did.”
Research in Motion, the company that makes the Blackberry, is Canadian.
Two of the product line managers nearby are talking about television news. “I really like Lou Dobbs,” one of them says. “Yeah,” the grumpiest person in the office replies, “he’s not afraid to tell it like it is.”
Feed
