getting off work

As my days in the office draw to a close (only five more), I reflect back on my first “real adult” job. I started working for this sexual and reproductive health organization at the age of 19. Three years later, I’m still the youngest in the office. At 19, I suddenly had a regular pay check (direct deposit, no less), health insurance, dental, vision, life insurance, and a 401K. I even got business cards!

Looking back, I realize, that something is still lacking. I have never gotten off at this job!

At almost every other job I’ve held, I found a way to fool around. Walk-in freezers at the IHOP and on top of the bar after closing at the pool hall have had their share of my attention. But my favorite was a session of naughty instant messages turned to phone sex late at night in the museum office where I interned (and met Dacia).

To provide some context, I was living with two other girls in a 1.5 bedroom apartment in bushwick and had just been robbed. I was pulling 18 credits at NYU, 15 hours of free internship and 10 hours of $10/hr administration at the museum, and 20 hours at a diner on the lower east side (and maintaining a 4.0 gpa, thank you very much). I had also stumbled in to a hugely complicated mess of a relationship with the gay identical twin brother of my best friend and roommate’s boyfriend (I’ll let you guys sort that out for a minute). What had started as a one night stand, lead to two nights, my first orgasm during partnered sex, toys in babeland for his first toy (I had just purchased my first vibrator two weeks before meeting him), my first strap-on, midnight bus rides mid-panic attack, sobbing phone calls, horrible fights, and passive-aggressive codependency all around. Plus he had identified as gay for almost five years and I was identifying as “I sleep with men but I only fall in love with women” so our identities were out of whack. The relationship was a mess but the sex was some of the best I have ever had (36 hour closed door marathons with breaks only to pee and eat and doze). Oh yeah, and he lived in DC while I lived in NYC.

So, one thursday evening I was in the office working or doing homework (my computer had been stolen in the robbery). The boy came online. I was talking about my day sorting porn for the museum and discussing public sex in my sexual identity and social space class at nyu.

he asked if I ever got turned on in the office. before I worked at the museum I had very little exposure to porn, so occasionally I found things that would interest me or at least make me cock my head to the side and go “huh”. then he asked if I ever had sex in the office. “no. but I’d like to. the roof access is wonderful.”

my office phone rang. “Hello, Jane Vincent. Thank you for calling the museum. How may I help you?”

“It’s almost midnight. Who would be calling you except me?”

“I don’t know. It’s important to keep up appearances.”

“Speaking of appearances, what are you wearing?” This line, originally a joke of our long distance phone calls, had become the initiation equivalent to an aural kiss. I described my skirt and heels and thigh highs and button down shirt and pig tails (always braided pig tails back then).

“I want you to take off your panties.” I giggled as I slid them down over my thigh highs (lesson I learned from porn, always put your garters on under your underwear for easy removal in circumstances such as peeing and sex).

“Does your chair lean back?”

“A little, but I’m less than a foot from the wall.” I tested this as I rocked back against the chair so that it hit the familiar scuff mark in the sheet rock.

“I want you to lean back as far as possible and prop your heals on the edge of your desk.” My calves arched with the angle.

“Now spread your legs.” I complied, careful to maintain my balance.

“If someone were to look in the window, could they see your pussy?”

“Uh huh,” I gasped.

“I don’t know. Maybe you should spread it open wider for them.” With my right hand I parted my labia.

“Are you wet?” Soaking. “I want you to taste yourself.” I dipped in two fingers and slurped them off by the receiver. He moaned.

“While holding your pussy open, I want you to play with your clit.” This was difficult as it required propping the phone between my chin and shoulder and maintaining an upright position in a tilted chair supported between the wall and my quivering heels.

“May I finger myself?” I asked.

“Yes, but only with one.” I choose the middle finger as it was the longest and reached in and forward, rubbing against my newly discovered g-spot.

“How does that feel?” Um, good? It’s much easier to fake dirty talk when you’re not actually excited.

“May I please have another finger?”

“First I want you to tell me what you would do if I were then.” I told him about swallowing his cock into the back of my throat, running my tongue along the seam up to the head, sliding it out of my mouth to suck on his balls, probing his ass with a wet finger. I took the liberty of sneaking two extra fingers into myself.

I started gasping. “Is someone cheating?” I couldn’t breath. “Little girl, are you playing with yourself?” I gasped as I slid a forth finger inside. The chair started to rock unsteadily so I climbed down to my knees on the floor. I rode my palm. His breathing became labored.

“How deep are you in?” My knuckles ground against the back of my vaginal wall. My thumb toyed with my urethra as my left hand furiously rubbed my clit, occasionally catching the sliding phone.

I cried out as I gushed over my hand and on to the office carpet. He gasped, groaned, and fell silent.

I started giggling. “I have to go get some paper towels from the bathroom now.”

“Sweet dreams.”

For the next week, he would begin his im’s to me with “Does it smell like sex in here?” Cheeky boy.

Although I haven’t had any sex in this office, it is the most comfortable and open environment I have ever worked in, including the museum. I’ve heard stories of my boss’ locker room blow jobs and my co-worker’s girlfriend’s UTIs brought on by vacation sex. I even placed the majority of my original ads from my computer here. Cleaning out my email box and cubicle, I’m beginning to realize how much I will miss this place.