Pressed For Time by twanza.pdf

Pressed For Time by twanza

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5900025/1/

When you ask a child what he wants to be when he grows up, he never tells you

that he wants to be an asshole. And yet, here I was, living the dream.

I was just back from another suck ass client meeting, and the email in front of

me already indicated the changes that needed to be made for a presentation in

the morning. I thought of the work that needed to get done between now and

then. I could dive in now, work late, and maybe have a bit of the evening to

myself. Or I could fuck off, give up the evening, probably most of the early

morning, and get the work done later.

Times like these called for the creation of a personal mantra.

Please fire me.

Because the Account Director starts every email with "Greetings and Salutations,"

as if she's making first contact with the home planet.

Please fire me.

Because I have been here for three years and just got a raise that will result in an

extra $187 per month, which I am supposed to be happy about because others

are getting nothing due to "budget restrictions."

Like a lot of employees in a startup, we were working around the clock for below

fair market wages hoping for a payoff down the road. The company was going

through typical growing pains, but none of us were sure if all of the time and

sweat invested in it would ever amount too much, but…

Please fire me.

Because a five-year-old could hack into our server, I know that the agency just

hired a freelancer who charges a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. And that the

senior management team has awarded themselves bonuses that are equal to

more than I might make in three years.

I looked over at McCarty's cube and the stupid poster hanging on the half wall

next to his desk.

Hard work often pays off after time, but laziness always pays off now.

He looked up and flipped me off in greeting. I returned the gesture and grinned.

My mind went there and I knew I was going to do it at the same time I told

myself I absolutely would not.

This isn't procrastination, it's obsession.

Staring out the window, I noticed it looked like it always did. Gray. I looked at the

clock on my computer screen. Two o'clock. Three hours until I could conceivably

leave, make the excuse that I had an appointment and then worry that everyone

would judge me for being the first to blink. So I procrastinated my obsession and

picked up the phone to call Tanya at work. She chattered on, sharing gossip

about people I didn't know before she reciting a litany of things I needed to do. I

didn't listen. The words blurred as she moved on to what we might have for

dinner.

I launched my rolling chair away from my desk and popped my head into the

Group Director's cube. We were already scheduled to present the revisions from

the meeting we'd just fucking come back from. He reminded me of the client

meeting first thing in the morning.

In case I was unclear.

"No problem, Yorkie, just put a fucking quarter in my ear."

He looked at me, annoyed at my sarcasm. Fucking inconsistent bastard. Some

days he was up for a good snarky comment, sometimes he was all fucking

management. Today his sense of humor was nowhere to be found.

"I'll need a chance to see it before the meeting. When can you get it to me?"

I looked at my watch for no reason other than effect. "Well, considering it's two

now and there are three concepts to revise, I'd say about four in the morning."

"Meet me for breakfast at seven?"

My entire night compressed in front of me. I pinched the bridge of my nose,

fucking exhausted before I'd even begun. I told him I was running out to get

coffee.

I turned and walked away just in time to hear him say, "E! Want me to call in the

freelancer on this?"

I stood in front of the elevators and pressed the down button about twenty times

in rapid-fire succession as if that would make the car come quicker. A girl with an

armload of black foam core boards looked at me and I gave her a nod, which she

returned with a grimace. I pressed the down button another few times and ran

my hand through my hair. She looked down at the ground and sighed.

Why were we all so fucking desperate?

It was a rhetorical question, but if anybody could give me an answer, it was her.

I ran my hand through my hair again and pushed through the revolving door. Out

on the plaza people were milling around at the café, sitting on the steps,

laughing, joking.

It was fucking two in the afternoon. What did these people do for a living?

I thought of her, though, and felt excited, still kidding myself that I wasn't going

to see her.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, picked up my pace and turned toward the

avenue. The block was perfect in its dinginess. The blue scaffolding around the

building they'd just torn down was already covered with guerrilla postings and

sharpie graffiti. The deli next door looked so filthy, I couldn't conceive of eating

anything out of its salad bar, yet there were ten people inside scooping up shit

and whapping it into plastic containers.

A bum sat on the sidewalk, a little dog in his lap. A cardboard sign perched next

to him detailed precisely how unkind fate had been to him. I gave him the change

in my pocket without meeting his eyes. Further up the street the little old Filipino

lady sat on the same sidewalk, knees bent toward her chest. Next to her was a

plastic bag of sweet rolls. If you didn't know, you'd think she was just another

panhandler, but the rolls she sold were delicious, three for five dollars. I'd had

them for breakfast. I looked at her, hoping to she would smile, but she didn't

make eye contact with me as I passed.

I stopped in front of the store, remembering the first time I'd gone in.

The fear.

I'd gone to get something for Tanya's birthday, something I could have gotten

online but I wanted to see if I had the stones to do it. Rather than buying the

same thing on Amazon, like a pussy, I'd convinced myself that my ability to buy it

in person from the sex shop was part of the gift.

I'd pushed into the store. The guy at the counter looked up from his newspaper,

gave me the once over and returned to the sports section of The Daily News. I

caught a glimpse of myself in the video monitor on the wall behind the cash

look.

It was fucking wall-to-wall porn.

I laughed at myself and ventured further into the store, browsing the aisles,

looking at the DVDs, magazines, books, sex toys, lingerie, and what seemed like

an entire wall of condoms.

Condoms.

It occurred to me that I felt just as perverted buying rubbers at the grocery store

as I did in a fucking sex shop on Eighth Avenue. Since Tanya was too

embarrassed to buy them when she went grocery shopping trip, I had to make a

special trip, walking up and down the aisles pulling random shit off the shelves

and chucking it into the little basket on my arm, just so I didn't have to go

through the line with the solitary blue box in my hand.

Frozen pizza. Printer paper. Light bulbs. Trojan Magnums.

Every time I did it I tried not to imagine the interpretation the fucking cashier

would give to the assortment of shit I'd managed to collect and line up on the

conveyor belt – as if this didn't happen in the checkout line a hundred times a

day.

I spotted the sign on the back wall that said "Five minutes: $35." I was an

asshole for being relieved at the five minutes, rather than horrified by the

expense.

I felt for my wallet, but decided not to leave a trail of receipts and reached in my

front pocket for cash. I pulled out two twenties and the slot for money sucked in

the bills and gave me five bucks change in silver dollars, which I would definitely

mistake for quarters later. The machine spit out a ticket with a code on it. I

pushed the curtain aside and saw a few rooms. Some were marked vacant, some

were "in use." I thought of the sign on the bathrooms in airplanes.

Occupado.

I walked into one of the rooms, which had a bench in front of an expanse of

leaded glass. Other than the security shield over the window, it looked like the

fucking lobby at the agency. My mind raced and I felt my nerves center in my

gut. I located the keypad above a coin slot and bill changer. I punched in the

code and the metal screen rolled up. I sat in front of it, no idea what I'd see, but

certain the scene would be degrading for both of us.

She was sitting on a chair in the little room and looked over at me. She was so

totally over it. She stubbed out the cigarette she was smoking. I immediately

decided to leave, afraid she'd dance or something humiliating for both of us, but

then I felt bad that she'd feel insulted or rejected. I forced myself to stay still and

just fucking man up.

She started out bored. Our eyes met, and she simply moved around the little

room. She had on a halter-top and a pair of tiny cut off jeans with fishnet

stockings. Her black eyeliner was smudged, artfully. Goth. Suicide Girls. Her

fingernails were bitten and painted black. There was a hole in her stocking at the

thigh. Her hair was wild. Naturally brown but a bit bleached like she'd been at the

beach.

She was young and almost too thin, but not. Her tits were high and her waist was

tiny. I could certainly get my hands around it. She didn't dance, so much as walk

around, like she was in her own private space doing her thing, getting undressed.

She turned around so I could see her back. The cut of her jeans was so short that

I could see the cheeks of her ass peek through. She untied the bow at the back of

her halter, and I saw a few freckles across her shoulder blades. She drew the

fabric away from her and dropped it on the floor, but didn't turn immediately

around.

Her legs were long. There was another hole in the fishnet on the inside of her

calf. I dragged my eyes down and smiled at her black combat boots. They didn't

look like part of a costume, they looked like they belonged to her, and I imagined

her walking down the street in them. She walked around a little, and picked up

the book she'd been reading. The chair in the room was facing me, but she sat

down on it sideways, giving me the profile of her body. She crossed her legs and

leaned back a little. I saw her profile, as she read. Her tits were perfection, tilted

up at an angle that made me want to touch them. I knew exactly how they'd feel

in my hands, at exactly which point her nipple would press into my palm. Her

thighs were lean and long and she kicked her boot a little like she was passing

the time, waiting for something, or just fidgety.

She turned toward me on the chair and I got the full on image, which thundered

into my eyes. She looked up and her dark eyes focused on mine. I didn't want to,

but I couldn't help but look at her tits, perfect and round and very real. I also

noticed the title of the book. "Hot & Cold," by Richard Hell. I grinned excitedly

because I was reading it too, and I pulled it out of my messenger bag to show it

to her. She walked over to the window to show me what page she was on and

pressed it to the glass. I had to walk over to her to see what she was showing

me, and the action of moving toward her felt incredibly intimate. Like walking in

on someone in the bathroom, and being allowed to stay.

She pointed at a paragraph for me to read.

"You realize there are certain things that you'll never do that you always thought

would be part of your future, ... It's a big relief to discover what you are best-

suited for, and it's a real advantage to be able then to focus. You can just jettison

all this useless floundering around, attempting to do stuff that's really not in your

range, and focus."

She was like the fucking oracle and I opened my book to the page I'd been

rereading for days.

"When I do dig down, I'm very irritated underneath...Why can't I just write a

book about taking a walk and having a cup of coffee? It kind of annoys me about

myself. If I could do it differently, I would. It's not some kind of principle. It's just

in my nature somehow."

The floor of her room was slightly raised from the one I was in, and she was

almost my height. She smiled and put her palm against the glass wall and I

covered hers with mine. She slowly squatted down to put her book on the floor,

leaving it open on her page. The stretch of her arm, the absolute lock she had on

the glass, and the way she lowered her body was almost like ballet. I noticed

little white scars on her arms, not needle punctures, more like tiny cuts that had

long since healed. And when she stood back up, as slowly as she'd gone down, I

saw another thin white scar on her throat. I swallowed, feeling tender and

inflamed at the same time. She pressed her other hand up against the glass. I

put my hand on her breast as she flattened against the transparent wall. I

imagined her heat through the chill.

She never took off more than her top, and I would have tried to stop her if she

had, but I put my other hand against her chest, the hard flat surface a welcome

barrier. This was more intense than feeling her skin and both of us were aroused.

Our bodies moved together, pressing and touching. I ran my hand up and down

her thigh and she put her forehead against the glass, and though her mouth

never touched it, her breath steamed the surface between us.

I ran my hand down the glass them from her chest down to her thigh, leaving a

trail of moist fingerprints that evaporated almost as soon as they appeared. She

pressed herself against the glass. I put my hand where, if I could have

penetrated the barrier, it would have rested firmly between her legs, following

her heat, encouraging it. I remembered that glass was the liquid form of sand,

and I wanted the heat of her body to turn it molten so that I could slip inside.

She put her hand where I'd pressed my dick against the wall and her other hand

against herself, stroking with her palm. I wanted to watch her come, though I

didn't want her to watch me come unless I was actually holding her. I felt so

intensely erect. I wanted her to stop, but it became urgent. I needed her to

finish.

God I needed her to come.

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