From the author: David knows there’s no harm in drafting unsent (but explicit) emails to Jason, his boss and office crush. Until he accidentally prints them out. How can David (“I think about fucking three hours a day. Is this normal?”) salvage their professional relationship?
[Content warning: the below story contains profanity and graphic references to sex.]
The first unsent email of the day went like this:
Can't make it to the meeting this morning. I keep thinking of you pounding me from behind, and I've got to stay at my desk to hide the concomitant woody.
The second unsent email, written about an hour later, was more like:
Would you like to get a drink with me after work, so I can pretend we're on a date?
Jason, naturally, being my boss—the authoritative, hard, powerful, arrogant-handsome-asshole type who would never hang out with the token homo nerd, who talks to the cacti on his desk when no one's looking.
But as any emo kid in a band can tell you, love is brutal. Jason's dark charisma pulls you in.
About twenty minutes later, it was:
I'm a better cook than your girlfriend is.
Smirk. Admire. Quietly delete.
Sixteen minutes later, I did:
Can we have our meeting this afternoon in a bathroom stall?
(Smirk. Admire. Delete.) What I should've been doing, I know, is something extremely important and boring, like Spreadsheet Templates or Holistic Workflow Solutions. But instead I think about fucking at least three hours a day. Is this normal?
Five minutes later, a series of we've-got-a-crisis emails landed in my inbox. I addressed it. During the interlude, I managed to forget about my boss (in the shower, lathering his body; rolling over and baring a tight ass to the moonlight; relaxing alone in his probably chic apartment. FOCUS YOU IDIOT: working in his office, just fifteen feet from your cube.) In the course of my addressing, I did five things at once with six emails open, and sent things, and CC'd things, and printed things. And twenty minutes passed.
And when everything was settled, I noticed that one of those six open emails actually said,
Would you like to fuck me raw? I can take a 7" (circumference!) dildo at home, so I'm feeling pretty prepared.
I stared at it.
I jumped from my cube and tore down the stupid hall to the stupid copy room, where some frizzy woman with horsy-looking teeth (marketing department) was at the printer, scooping up an enormous pile of crap.
She looked up at me and smiled. "Oh, sorry. Do you have something in here?"
"No," I denied, and fled back into the hallway. I could've kicked myself: why hadn't I said "I don't know; why don't you let me take a look?"
I turned around again, stymied by my own idiocy. I watched her leave the copy room and go down the hall in the opposite direction.
I followed her, discreetly.
When she paused at her cube, I paused too. What's my line? But then Ellen came out of her office and said, "Thanks for grabbing those, Mindy," and took the entire pile from Horsy Teeth.
My heart crawled into my mouth.
Ellen retreated into her office and shut the door.
I stood in the hallway for a minute like a dweebus. Mindy looked up from her desk. "Are you looking for Ellen?"
I went up to Ellen's door and peeked around the edge, just barely, to look through her office's glass front wall. The pile of papers sat on the edge of her desk, untouched, while she typed something.
I knocked. Ellen motioned for me to come in. I stepped inside and lied, "Sorry to interrupt, but Allie was looking for you earlier."
"Oh?" Ellen didn't look up from her screen. "Did she say what it was about?"
"No." I tried to look at Ellen and not the pile. "She said it was important, though. And that she had to find you right away."
Ellen sighed and stood. "Great. Thanks, David."
"Sure." I left her office with her, but lagged behind. S-l-o-w-l-y. She turned into the labyrinth of cubes, and I turned right back into her office. And I grabbed the pile, and dude, I fucking ran.
Until Jason God himself turned a corner, raw sex in his stride and swagger, as if he were the mere vehicle for his golden cock, and could use it to smite the building.
I stumbled to a halt. Jason cruised to a halt.
We eyed each other.
He blocked my way, shoulders broad, legs planted wide, as if he were ready to, uh, (redacted).
I swallowed. "Yes?"
Jason's eyes flicked to the pile. "For walking those over. Ellen sent you, didn't she? Because she's done with them?"
"Oh," I said. "Well uh, yeah, that."
He stepped up to me, close. I could feel his body heat. His cologne rode over on it in waves, a musky scent that stopped my exhalation. "Thank you," he said, and reached out—hands open and demanding.
My joints loosened. David, you R-Tard, don't faint. I bent my head and tried to swiftly leaf through hundreds of still-hot pages. "I... just a minute... I have an email mixed up in here... I think..."
His dark brows twitched down in impatience. "Just print it again."
"Almost." I tried flipping faster, but I was clumsy and skipped whole chunks, and his (hottie, hottie, hottie) proximity wasn't helping.
"David." His hands moved in and held the pile, insistently. "Come on."
"One more—" I stuttered. "I just—"
The pile slid apart in our hands as he pulled one way and I pulled the other, and I saw, on the very top of his pile, an email that began, "From: Hershaw, David."
I yelped. Actually, okay, maybe I screamed like a little girl. I tried to snatch the page but Jason stepped back, looked down, radiated manly authority, frowned.
What could I do? I watched his eyes saccade over every 10-point-font line.
He picked it up and held it out to me.
Dear Mr. Matthews,
I'm writing about the adjustment you asked for me to make to your account last week...
"Is this it?"
I said, R-Tard, don't faint.
The impulse to breathe and survive flooded me again, and I snatched my perfect innocence from his grasp. "Yes! Thank Christ!"
Jason stared at me.
Before he could say anything, I shoved the rest of the pile into his hands. "Nevermind," I blurted, and continued the sprint to my cube.
Collapse in chair. Christ, Christ, Christ. I lost ten minutes to uncreative mental cursing and the shakes. I looked at my fake walls, the tacked-up schedules, my calendar molting its sticky notes. I'd completely forgotten what I had been doing. I looked around my desk for clues.
Oh yes. Closing some windows I didn't need—of course.
Still shaking, I swiveled back to my computer and checked what else I had open.
David, you're not an R-Tard. You're an eternal moron.
Didn't you print two of those open emails?
My insides dropped into freefall. I pulled my doomed body to its feet and peeked over the top of my cube, through the glass wall into Jason's office.
He was sorting through the pile of papers.
One more. Here we go. I moved drunkenly from my desk to his door, barely able to breathe/function/walk, flailing at the walls for support. I didn't so much knock as fall against the door fist-first.
He gestured for me to come in.
I entered. "Hey. I think I had something else in there."
Jason looked up, expression normal and serious, and handed me the remainder of the stack. "Take a quick look. I've got to clip these together anyway."
I flopped into the chair across his desk. Again, I flipped through camouflaging reams. A drop of sweat rolled down my temple. I didn't find anything, but I didn't trust myself, and looked through it again.
I set the pile back on his desk. I exhaled. "It's all right. I don't have anything in there. I thought I'd printed out two things. But forget it."
His eyes flicked up to mine.
Wordlessly, expression blank, he pulled a page from a freshly-paper-clipped stack, and laid it face-up in front of me.
Oh no, eyes; don't sink down. Don't look.
And if you do, don't read it.
Nice, David. That's reeeeal nice.
In the periphery of my vision, Jason rose and moved around his desk. Musky cologne rolled over me as he passed. I heard a rattle, and the daylight around us dropped.
I dared to look up. Jason was closing the blinds over his glass wall.
"Uh, look," I said.
But Jason God turned back to me, dark smile at 1,000 Watts, iron hands lunging and gripping me under the armpits, standing me up, and flinging me roughly to the back of his door. He moved his hips, one violent thrust, and pinned me where I stood. Demanding eyes locked over mine: well?
Say something. Say something.
Like an ass: "Hi, Jason."
Mouth on mine.
This story originally appeared in Transcendant Visions.
From a mechanical forest that constructs itself to the streets of Kyoto 8,000 years hence, the sometimes whimsical, sometimes cutting short fiction of KJ Kabza has been dubbed “Delightful” (Locus Online) and “Very clever, indeed” (SFRevu). Collecting all of his work published before May 2011 (plus 5 new stories, notes on the stories, and an interview by Julia Rios), IN PIECES offers glimpses into other worlds—some not unlike your own.
Note: Curious Fictions may receive a commission if you purchase through Amazon.