The Apple of My Eye

Pour Some Sugar on Me

Two thousand eight was an electrifying year, hands down, although not for every character in this story. After a couple of months into our "relationship," it was becoming gradually clear to Michelle that she had no future hanging out with me. And even if she had been voicing her dissatisfactions ever so loudly in recent weeks, she still wasn't causing me trouble at work, so everything was all right as far as I was concerned. She still behaved properly whenever we were in the presence of coworkers, at meetings and such, and reserved her protests for those moments when we were alone with each other, which were now increasingly rare and far between.

I could not be bothered, honestly. Not only was there a parade of beautiful women coming in and out of my life at a blistering pace, but I'd never really been in love with Michelle to begin with. I liked her a lot, true, but I must confess: I was beginning to wish she would just call it quits and go the fuck away. Away from me and away from work, too, so she wouldn't cause me any trouble. I never told her any of that, obviously. I was a jerk, yeah, but I had class, so I kept on lying.

"I'm busy. Can't see you today, okay? But I will next week. Promise," I'd say. Only to tell her the same thing the following week. Over and over.

Sometimes I'd leave early just so I wouldn't have to drive her home after work. To be fair, "sometimes" doesn't even come close to telling it like it is. It got to the point where I would deliver her to her doorstep no more than once a week.

Michelle knew exactly what was going on. She was a smart girl. Soon enough she started acting all indifferent toward me. Wouldn't even talk to me sometimes. At our meetings, she'd sit next to one of the fellows on the team and converse heartily. I knew what she was pulling, though. It was so evident. She thought she'd be able to hurt my pride by acting that way. After all, she assumed she was my girl and I wouldn't tolerate seeing her laughing at someone else's jokes like that.

Wrong. I tolerated it very well. Exceedingly well. Actually, I didn't give a flying fuck. I felt bad because I really didn't want to hurt her, but I truly wanted her out of there. Out of my way.

I just couldn't bring myself to fire her, though. Of course not. That would have been too low, right? Doing her on her mother's living room couch had not been too low. Finger fucking her in the car in the middle of the night had not been too low. But putting her out of a job would have. What a sorry little excuse for a man I was.

My plan was simple. By neglecting her, I wanted Michelle to believe I was too busy to be in a significant relationship—with her or anyone. I wanted her to tell me she had had enough of it all. I wanted her to make the decision to leave me. And then leave the damn job in the process, too.

Maybe it was self-preservation, I don't know. Maybe deep inside I was scared shitless that if she ever lost her job, even if she gave me perfectly good reasons to fire her, she'd tell people about our surreptitious association and I'd be in serious trouble. Maybe it was I who was in for a taste of unemployment. Who the fuck could tell?

Whichever it was, I was going to have to put up with her for the time being and try not to make her too mad. And she had already given up on me anyway, or at least it seemed like she had. Now she was out to make me pissed, is what she was. Tardiness, unjustified absenteeism, pretending not to listen while I talked to her, you name it. Her repertoire was vast.

While all this shit was going down with Michelle, I sometimes had so many women after me I didn't know which way to jump, as the old song goes. There were old acquaintances who came calling to see how I was doing, former coworkers who wanted to "stop by for a cup of coffee," and a lineup of secretaries, receptionists, and office workers—who worked in offices other than mine, that is—who felt like "having a word about something that's just come up" an awful lot of times. They couldn't simply tell me over the phone, see, they had to come to my office.

I was somewhat ill at ease in those instances. Self-aware, you know? I knew I was being licentious—and in the workplace, no less. But that didn't stop me. I was still careless about maintaining at least a façade that could, for all intents and purposes, be taken seriously. You see, I was still having trouble balancing my two primary drives: one toward professional success and accomplishment; the other toward chasing tail and letting it chase me. I didn't want to have to focus on only one of those things. No, not me. I wanted to take it all in. I wanted to feel everything all the time. The more action I got, the more I wanted it.

Looking back now, I don't think I was motivated by either sex or money, though. I was motivated by power. It was the first time in my adult life I experienced that sensation. I was inebriated with it. And I needed more.

A typical day in the workplace would involve much more than just labor. I'd start off in the afternoon by fooling around with the plump receptionist, who was barely legal at the time. A few hours later, just as day turned into night, I'd be getting busy with this juicy blonde bimbette who took turns working as a receptionist and training to work in accounts receivable someday. She wasn't as young as the first girl, but she was still very young in her early twenties. Later still, just as my shift was about to end, I'd be having my way with this hot tamale of a girl who already worked in accounts receivable. Actually, it felt more like she was the one having her way with me, most of the time. As far as her face was concerned, poor thing, it looked as if she had fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, but my little sexpot of a troll had a keister that was a divine path to satiation, I tell you. And all this right in my office, in the course of a single workday. I kid you not. The door was always locked, sure, but only a miracle can explain why no one ever came knocking.

There were classier spit exchanges, too. These invariably involved girls who either worked there or were clientele, and usually took place off the premises, for good measure.

Whenever I was not doing any of this stuff, however, I'd be quick to remind myself what a piece of shit I was. I had to stop what I was doing. Enough already, you know? But then, as soon as the action restarted, I was comforted by the thought that all the guys out there who didn't actually get any and were having sex with their pillows were infinitely more fucked up than I was.

By most people's standards, I was a piece of shit, yes, but I was doing myself a lot of good. I had the best sleep every night. No tossing and no turning as long as I was sleeping alone. I'd lay my head in the pillow, close my eyes, and doze off almost immediately. Like a baby.

Lore has it that when you're in love you have trouble sleeping because your real life is much better than your dreams. Me, I had gotten over Natalie at last and was more out of love then than I had ever been. And don't get me wrong: I loved the ladies. Loved them. But I was out of love. None of them in particular interested me, seeing as it was so easy to find replacements. Yet I found myself telling each of them how remarkable they were anyway. And I meant it: all women are remarkable, one way or another. The most extraordinary creatures. Regardless, none of those liaisons ever lasted. I'd always realize just a tad too late that I was not quite as into it as I had initially thought.

When too much is never enough, you just know there's something wrong, something amiss.

What I needed was to fall in love. I needed to fall head over heels in love. I needed someone entirely new. Someone who would rock my foundations. Someone I had never laid eyes on before. I needed the slight drop of the heart, the stomach curling into itself. I needed to feel breathless. I needed to be the love of someone's life again.