There were stories about her. Some tales were simple and straightforward. Others were complex esoteric constructions. Like any gossip, it was descriptive hearsay layered on top of more general hearsay. As a consequence, I rarely subscribe to hearsay. In any event, these stories were rather banal and uninventive lies that ran the usual gamut from chronic promiscuity to, uh, lax grooming.
“It comes with the territory,” she told me. Indeed, from my experience, disarmingly beautiful women – not simply ‘cute’ or ‘pretty’ girls; no, only beauty that would make Helen of Troy seethe with envy – are the subjects of rumours, stories, and innuendo. The reason is quite obvious. The majority of women are highly insecure, neurotic, and unattractive or plain creatures whose under stimulated and often unsatisfying romantic lives compel them to gossip vociferously about statuesque ‘threats’, either to protect an erroneous idea that ‘my man only has eyes for me’ or a self-effacing consolation ‘she’s not that hot’. In the end, the homely girl buys what the celebrities are endorsing – hence, ostensibly using – and wear what the beautiful people wear, use the same makeup they do, date men with similar builds and hair that the beautiful ones do. But, embedded within that mimetic admiration is a virulent hatred and envy of beauty. “If I consume you, do I become you?” they ask silently.
Yvonne was the office beauty first, an accountant second. All the men – from Mike the custodian to Hunter, my boss – were aching with a very primordial pain in her presence. She knew what was up. She would flirt and play with them, however upon being asked out to lunch or dinner or, as Mike did one time, to an Ultimate Fighting event, she would politely decline, citing that she ‘has policy of not dating co-workers’. Fair enough, most of them would eventually say, possibly after several more lame attempts at circumventing her stoic defences – they would forget her maxim in a week or so and make another attempt.
“You really can’t blame them for trying. It’s rather admirable,” I told her, knowing full well half of them were cheating bastards with partners, girlfriends, or spouses who simply wanted to mount her as the mantelpiece of an imaginary trophy room.
“Why haven’t you taken a shot?”
“You’re not my type,” was my dry matter-of-fact reply. Her mischievous glow dissipated and not because she was hurt by my comment. No, I suspect she was deeply offended by it. As much as she tired of all the attention, I knew she needed to be wanted by everybody. How can I not be your type? I’m the very definition of fuckable. If you were to look up fuckable in the dictionary, you’ll see a picture of me in a pantsuit and you’ll still blow your wad. A fuckin’ pantsuit would make you cream your khakis, you pathetic little boy!
Appearances, however, eventually returned to homeostasis. She patted me on the shoulder, let out a giggle at my ostensibly humorous comment, and returned to her desk.
It was true that I never asked her out. And she wasn’t my type. Did that mean I didn’t want to fuck her? Hell no. But only a moron would come out and say that in words, deeds, or gestures – consciously or subconsciously. I was biding my time. It’s more fun when she can’t stand it anymore and jumps your bones. I couldn’t imagine a greater ego stroke than becoming, if only for a moment or two, the object of desire for a staggeringly desirable woman. Keep her puzzled, keep her interested, stay an enigma, and let her drive herself crazy with thought and longing, let her descend into a state of confusion and longing and irrational desire.
Having been the only one not actively drooling all over her ample breasts or spreading absurd stories and lies throughout the building, I became by default her confidant. Initially, she found our incomprehensibly chaste repartee a welcome relief to the contrivance lobbed her way during any given day. And I welcomed her presence of course. It made me feel exceptional. As a middleman spending most of everyday facing a grey cubicle wall, any exceptional thing – no matter how big or how small – gave my life some meaning. Sometimes I would peek outside of my cubicle to see her bouncing buttocks shaking like some wondrous jelly, shaking, I like to believe, for my personal edification. Stolen gazes were fine and dandy – until you get caught. Getting caught is often not an option, unless, of course, you consciously want to be found out.
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