The Toad, the Blonde and I
By: tmhoblogger (15 December 2008)
My boss is the Toad and no, I don't have any warped secret sexual fantasies where I would kiss him and he'd transform magically into a prince, who would sweep me away from the sad existence that is my life, and we would then live happily ever after in a fabulous castle, shag like rabbits, have loads of delicious little princes and princesses, and a truck load of nannies to look after the little darlings.
In fact, if you were to meet the Toad, it will quickly dawn on you that he is no woman's fantasy, unless of course you were a seriously kinky woman who sleeps with toads, or turned on by men with loads of money, or of course the upwardly mobile and ambitious Blonde. My guess is that the Toad must be loaded because he is one of the top directors in the City of London company where I work to pay for whatever sins I committed in a previous existence.
Looking at the Toad, you can't exactly tell that he is loaded, what with his worn out shoes (I swear, I saw a hole in his shoes once), the not so carefully obscured raised heels, the ill-fitting cheap suits he wears with sweat stained shirts, the horrible banger of a car he parks in the directors' car park where all the other directors display their latest addition of the likes of Porches, Ferraris and Rolls Royces.
This morning at work, I was seriously sick following a game I played with myself. Following that game, I puked until I thought my insides were about to explode. Too much information, but you know the kind of puking where your face is covered in bruises from burst blood vessels due to the over exertion. Phew.
It had all started this weekend where last night, being Sunday of course, I was literally shitting myself because the weekend was once again over, my two days of grace whereby I was meant to recover my sanity, were over. By the way, could someone please point out for a public flogging, the narcissist bastard who designed the working week so that you spend 5 days out of 7, servicing assholes, and only 2 days to recover any semblance of sanity, or that thing called life.
In a renewed effort to make my working life less of a misery, I had resolved to find something to like about the Toad. Today, I was full of determination as I walked into our weekly team meeting at 8 am. Of course nothing makes the working week start on a brilliant note like starting the week by having a one hour meeting at 8 am on a Monday morning, in a small meeting room with the Toad and the Blonde.
This morning, I had smiled inanely at the Toad as he asked me numerous stupid questions wanting updates on various projects I was managing. The Toad is one of those people who like to think that they are very important and intelligent. But every time he opens his mouth, he unfortunately displays his rather impressive lack of intelligence and deficiency in the simplest analytical thinking.
This morning, I nodded dutifully until I thought my neck would explode under the pressure, and also smiled cheerfully when as usual he singled out the Blonde for special and long winded praise. I even managed a nod and a smile when my achievements were assigned flitting "team" praise. Of course, the only time the Blonde and I are ever a team, are on projects that I have worked on exclusively. Everything else, including projects assigned to both of us, would have the Toad praising the Blonde excessively, with her always conveniently forgetting to mention my input. As the Toad and the Blonde smiled at each other, I managed to smile whilst thinking enough already, you two do me a freaking favour and get a room.
Needless to say, my determination to suck it up, be pleasant and find something to like about the Toad didn't last the hour or even a full half hour. My smile probably got replaced by the complete and utter look of panic and despair that a combination of the Toad and the Blonde always seem to bring out on me. I should probably add that the Blonde is in a lower grade job than me. But she has never made it a secret that she wants my job, and you know what, I can bet my last pound that it won't be long before she gets it.
I guess thinking of the mutual appreciation between the Toad and the Blonde, made me wonder if my life would be easier, if I could just suck it up, and just like the Toad a little bit. He likes pretty girls, and I am not at all a bad looking girl, and perhaps I should make myself more "accessible" like the cheap slut, the Blonde.
OK, my liking the Toad might just be like expecting your alarm clock to wake you up with freshly brewed Columbian coffee, directed to your mouth, whilst you hang on to your sleep mask for a few precious five minutes. But life would be so much easier if I didn't detest the man with every part of my very being. If I didn't find everything about him so despicable, surely life would be easier.
And so the game began immediately after today's meeting, with me sitting in the room I share with the Blonde, pretending to read my emails, whilst the Blonde as always was chatting on the phone about her wonderful weekend, her love life, her energetic sex life, all the millions of men who want her, her new Audi TT which was a surprise present from her one of her rich boyfriends, the main rich boyfriend, who has also booked a surprise long weekend to Dubai flying Emirates first class and staying at that six star monstrosity.
And no, I am not at all jealous of the Blonde. I promise you that I am not. Really, I am not.
Forget about the Blonde for a minute and let's think about the Toad. I imagined something, anything attractive about him, after all he was once married to a perfectly acceptable woman. I started thinking that perhaps he was a good lover. By powers that I had absolutely no control over, I went from thinking about the Toad's ex wife, to wondering if there were any circumstances at all, in which I would sleep with the Toad.
Let's examine that proposition for a minute. For love, hell no; promotion, never, I'd rather starve; as a dare, no dare is worth sleeping with the Toad; money, how much? I found myself asking, betrayed by my inner self which had taken on a life of its own. Evil inner self.
I went through different amounts that I could be paid to sleep with the Toad, confidently rejecting all propositions, until I came to £10 million. I guess the worst thing about playing a game with yourself is that you can't exactly lie to yourself, can you? Finally I admitted defeat, and accepted that I'm not a whore or a slut but if someone, somewhere, decided to pay me the grand sum of £10 million, tax free, I would pay off all my debts, my mortgage, travel the world and never have to work ever again, unless of course I choose to do so.
My evil back stabbing inner self decided that for that freedom, I would happily sleep with the Toad. I might even enjoy it.
And just as I was beginning to accept the stark reality that for £10 million, I would have consensual sexual relations with the Toad, I remembered that morning sitting next to him, with his hand draped over the back of my seat, his white shirt, milky from having seen better days, decoratively stained with stale sweat expertly tucked over his very large tummy, his trousers cleverly held in place under his over flowing belly, his short stumpy legs spread as if he was in the comfort of his personal sitting room, or rather about to poo in his home toilet. I swear I could make out a urine patch but I won't totally gross you out. I remembered him smiling at the Blonde, whilst slurping his coffee with some rather stubborn froth hanging on his unkempt bushy beard, his special smell of stale sweat and alcohol wafting from his armpit to me. Even at 8 am, the Toad has the extraordinary ability to reek of booze.
It was the last bit, the image of the classic combination of sweat, stale alcohol and urine that got to me. Because try as I may, I can't ever understand why a man who earns over a million pounds cannot afford to use a freaking deodorant. The thought of the Toad naked in all his hideous glory, and in my much adored bed, with my luxurious bed linens, his fat smelly body on top of me, was the deal breaker. I suddenly found myself literally running from my desk to the nearby ladies to puke until my insides hurt.
The bad news though, is that it looks like my £10 million and plans to travel the world will just have to wait another day.
"Are you alright?" The Blonde asked when I came back to the office we share, giving me a tight fake smile and struggling very hard, bless, to affect a look of genuine concern.
"Yes, something didn't quite agree with my system."
"You're not pregnant are you?" She asked sweetly, no doubt hoping that she could take over my job whilst I was on maternity leave and never give it back. Screw maternity laws.
"No, I'm not pregnant." I replied.
I didn't of course tell her that there was no freaking way I could be pregnant as I was probably the only woman alive that wasn't having sex.
It has been exactly 209 days and thirteen hours since I last had good sex, bad sex, any sex, full stop.
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Comments on this post:
"I love it! More please. Are you sure you are not employed by my ex boss?! I had a Blonde too, only she was a brunette. When you find the person responsible for the 5 day week, please let us all know so we can watch the public flogging:)"
summer (15 December 2008)
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"Thanks for the laugh. Good luck, it sounds like you need it!"
lindalondon (17 December 2008)
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"Summer, thank you! Who knows maybe we share a boss?! Do you work in the City? Lindalondon, thanks for the good luck wishes, I need it!"
TMHOblogger (18 December 2008)
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