How to Avoid Sex (12 page)

I delivered this red herring with confidence. The co-worker shrugged it off and went back to minding his own business. I continued my work, slowly drowning in a sea of pain. Every now and then a groan would escape me.

Later in the morning, Mr. Branderberg emerged from his office. “Worthington! Good to see you back. Hope you’re feeling tip top. Why on earth are you standing like that?”

I repeated my lie about the exercise regime, hoping it wouldn’t result in follow up questions. Mr. Branderberg absorbed my words with interest.

“You know something,” he said. “That is a corker of an idea! I have heard similar information myself, and this whole standing up business is ingenious.”

He positioned himself in the middle of the workroom and called for attention. Everyone stopped their work to accommodate this.

“The office is a time bomb,” he said. “Office workers all over the world are in danger of succumbing to entropy. As a manager, it is important that, where possible, I do something to combat
this. The answer itself is so damned simple. Old Worthington here has instigated a personal regime in an effort to prolong his life. He has said ‘goodbye’ to his chair and ‘no more’ to sitting. He is standing for his right to live! Who would we be if we didn’t follow his brave lead?”

My co-workers were staring at one another and beginning to look uncomfortable.

“I want each and every one of you to abandon their chair. From this point forward, all chairs are banned from the office. We will all stand and we still stand proudly.”

The gawking co-workers sat frozen, unsure what to make of the unfolding situation.

“Come on!” yelled Mr. Branderberg. “Stand! STAND!”

Everyone rose slowly from their seats in confused unison. Mr. Branderberg pointed at two people and charged them with the unpopular task of chair removal. They obeyed, but clearly weren’t happy about it. As each worker lost their chair, a noticeable part of their spirit died. Mr. Branderberg ran into his office and emerged second later straining to hold his executive chair overhead.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m joining you. I don’t need a chair.”

He struggled toward one of the windows and began to ram the chair against it. Each thud reverberated around the office. Eventually the glass began to crack and soon after, it shattered. With a furious heave, he slung the chair outside of the building. He brushed invisible grit from his hands and we all jumped when we heard it land, accompanied by the distant screams of unfortunate pedestrians.

“The fight against death has commenced!” he yelled before returning to his office.

My co-workers stood agape. They were looking in my direction with an understandable level of agitation in their eyes. I gave them a little wave, which they didn’t return. It seemed that the most sensible course of action was to simply avoid them and proceed with my work. I grimaced in response to both the pain and embarrassment that now occupied my body in equal measure. The stony silence behind me gradually turned into recommencement of work. A part of me wanted to apologise, but a greater part of me wanted to celebrate the success of my lie. I’m not one to indulge in dishonesty, but in this instance, I was quite impressed with myself. We all stood together but had never been farther apart. The rest of the morning was an orchestra of uncomfortable moaning and misery, accentuated every so often by the sound of Mr. Branderberg yelling ‘LIFE!’ from his office.

As my lunch break approached, I was hunched so far over my desk that my head kept smacking the keyboard. This standing up business was a strange form of torture indeed, but it was a form of torture I soon experienced respite from. I can only assume this was a result of the demise of my standards, but I glanced at my crotch. Once more I was greeted with the terrible bulge of an erection. I considered muttering some offensive language to myself, but thought better of it. Not wanting to fall victim to the prolonged discomfort, I decided it was in my best interest to deal with the situation at my earliest convenience. With the arrival of my lunch break, I straightened my back and tried to ignore the sickening crack of my bones. I held my bowler in front of me, hiding my vulgarity from prying eyes, and sidestepped out of the office. The hateful stares of my co-workers remained with me as I left.

I sought refuge in my cherished toilet block within the bamboo forest. Not wanting to run the unlikely risk of prying eyes and ears, I combed the area to make sure there were no other signs of life. I entered my favourite cubicle and lowered my pants. The erection looked red and agitated. Gooey strings of excitement swung from the tip. I shuddered as I sat on the toilet, invented a little prayer and began the horrid process of masturbation. Dirty images tried to form in my brain, which I tried my best to eliminate, not wanting what I was doing to be any more sexual than it had to be. Instead, I focused on where the imagery might have come from. What machinations were in place that allowed for their formation? What was their inspiration? Perhaps most importantly, had Sexualis Delirium installed those machinations, or did they merely wake them up? The latter was a terrifying thought, but at least expending my mental energy focused on them allowed me to distance myself from the masturbation… for a while at least. This tangent dissolved into sickening images of towered chairs, dripping their lust all over each other. They brayed and vibrated. The revolting imagery became food for the beast, engorging my penis further and intensifying the physical sensation.

My orgasm careened out of me in rainbow arcs that collided with the cubicle door. I slunk back on the toilet, feeling a moment of relaxation and allowing the simple pleasure of deep breathing to work its magic. I felt like a deviant, but I hoped my deviance wouldn’t remain for long. Sexualis Delirium would cure me or I’d sue them. I’m sure they’d do whatever it took to avoid a legal dispute. Feeling as though my unpleasant adventure had a distinct endpoint, I tried not to hate myself too
much for the masturbation. Instead I enjoyed the divine bliss of sitting on the toilet and feeling the pain draining from my legs. Had time permitted, I could have quite easily fallen asleep here.

“Fuck that’s a hot arsehole.”

The voice startled me. Perhaps it was the residual echo of my masturbatory mind. I closed my eyes, intent of prolonging my relaxation.

“And those bare cheeks feel so fucking hot when they’re smothering me.”

My eyes opened once more. The toilet’s cistern was percolating of its own accord.

“Use me. Let it all drop, you beautiful, hot-cocked beast.”

I scrambled off the toilet with my pants still around my ankles. Water was starting to overflow and dampen the ground around me.

“Fucking tease! Don’t get me all worked up and run away. You bastard!”

“Shut up!” I yelled. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Me? You’re the one who gets me hard and then fucks off after he’s cum and before I do.”

I pounded my fists against the cubicle walls, too worked up to summon the motor control needed to operate the lock. The hinges began to give and the door fell to the ground with me on top. I ran outside, tripping on my pants as I did. Hyperventilating on the floor of the bamboo forest, I stared up at the sky, wishing something would reach out a hand and pluck me up. But of course, nothing came. I was left to control my breathing and hitch up my pants alone.

CHAPTER 16

The office was descending into chaos. Most of my co-workers were standing at their desks and crying.

“I can’t feel my legs!” cried one.

“Shut up!” replied another. “None of us can feel our fucking legs.”

As I walked toward my desk, I received torrents of abuse from those around me, which I tried to ignore, but how can one not hear the words ‘unmitigated cunt’ when repeated ad nauseam?

“I can’t take this anymore!” screamed a woman I’d worked with for ten years, but whose name I never bothered to learn. “I can just stand here! It’s not humane!”

She swept the computer off her desk where it landed with a spark and fizz. She climbed atop the newly created space and shrieked before turning her head to face the shattered window.

“Consider this my resignation,” she said as she started running toward it.

With a single, confident leap, she flew through the window, wailing until she made contact with the ground outside. The wailing stopped, as did the grumbling within the workplace. To say this had been an unpleasant day was a gross understatement.

Home time could not arrive soon enough, but for me of course, it wasn’t home time at all. Before I could even consider the sweet embrace of Windsor’s seat, I needed to pay Sexualis Delirium an important visit. I limped my way out of the office, willing my legs to remain strong. I bid my work colleagues a hearty ‘good evening’ and was less than inspired by their response, which verged on the insulting. After I had reversed my treatment, I could set to work restoring order to the rest of my life, with the first item on the agenda being the return of all chairs to the workplace.

I traversed the city, ignoring the encroaching Chads and the pushy vendors. There was no time for pleasantries. I didn’t even pause to regard a single new hat. My legs, no matter how much I pleaded, refused to move faster than an elderly shuffle, which slowed me down more than I would have liked. Back in the unfamiliar part of town, I fought to gain my bearings. The unfamiliar has a habit of appearing larger than life. Mere streets stood between me and Sexualis Delirium, but it may
as well have been continents. I struggled to recall familiar landmarks and signposts, but it was of little use. My map was absent, so I had to ask the general public for directions.

I stopped a businessman in mid-stride. He motioned to hit me with his umbrella and sped away as I cowered. A nun, whose habit was clearly on backwards, also reached for her umbrella when as I approached. I ushered her along before it could get nasty. I pleaded with a group of passing children, all of whom gave me a solid whack with their umbrellas, seemingly getting quite a kick out of it as they did. The same fate kept befalling me. Person after person considered me a worthy target for umbrella discourtesy and I didn’t know why. It wasn’t even raining, nor had there been any suggestion it would. Surely people weren’t this unreasonable?

A young lady who looked entirely too glamorous to appear in non-print form strode toward me. Instinct lifted my hands to cover my face, but I was relieved to see no umbrella in her midst.

“Nobody’s going to help you like that,” she said.

I spun in a circle to ensure she wasn’t regarding another. “What are you talking about?”

“Like that,” she repeated while pointing at my crotch.

I followed the direction of her pointing finger right to my latest erection.

“Oh… FUCK!” I yelled. “I didn’t even know it was there. FUCK!”

“Maybe be a little more careful next time,” she said while walking away.

“Please! Don’t go. Not yet. Can you tell me where Hardy Boys alley is? It’s terribly urgent. I need your help.”

She turned to face me with understandable suspicion lacing her eyes. I’m not an expert in modern social protocol, but I had my doubts it was considered wise for young women to help dishevelled older men with erections.

“Please,” I repeated. “You have no idea how important this is.”

The suspicion in her eyes remained, but it had merged with another feeling… pity. As long as I had this woman’s pity, I knew she wouldn’t disregard my request. I certainly hadn’t won her respect, but that didn’t matter, as long as the end result was the same.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Follow me. We’re not far from Hardy Boys alley, but stay a few steps behind and try not to look a sexual predator with me in their sights.”

“THANK YOU! I won’t forget this.”

“Please please please forget this,” she replied.

She walked and, as best as I could, I followed, remaining several lengths behind partly out of respect for her wishes and partly as a result of my stiff legs. My pace was so poor that she had to stop a couple of times so I could catch up, which, if the umbrella she purchased from a vendor was an indication, was starting to frustrate her. When we finally arrived at the alleyway, she turned and draped the umbrella over her shoulder as if it were a weapon.

“Here we are,” she said.

“Thank you for your generosity.”

In reply, she hit me sharply on the shoulder with the umbrella. I fell to the ground with a pronounced OUCH.

“Look… I’m sorry I did that. But there’s something inexplicable about you that makes people want to just smash you with an umbrella.”

I raised my arm and brushed the incident off. “It’s fine. I completely understand. Thanks again.”

She walked away and I struggled to my feet. The damn erection was still jutting out, but at least I’d have immediate proof of my problem, which I could show the Sexualis crew. I hobbled up the alley, glancing at each building, looking for the pink façade of my destination. I reached the alley’s end without success and reasoned I must have been distracted and missed Sexualis. Doubling back, I vowed to keep my eyes focused on everything, but arrived back at the start of the alley again. What the hell was happening? One doesn’t simply miss a pink building in a litter-strewn alleyway.

A man, quite likely homeless by his appearance from behind, emerged from behind a collection of bins, so I approached him, hoping that somehow I had made a simple mistake.