Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final - Sex Stories

Stable Employment Pt. 02 - Final

... his office chair, playing with that dumb ball of his.

"Hey, Cor," he says.

"Hey, John. Watcha thinkin' about?"

He leers at me, then feigns guilt and shame. "Thinkin' about butt fuckin,'" he sleazes out like a sweaty pervert. It's a dumb thing we do -- something on the holonet that made us both laugh. It's almost like laughing at my own dysfunction -- almost.

I catch sight of some familiar formatting on his holoscreen. "Mary Worlds, huh? Anything new and exciting?"

"Always," he says. "Nature of the multiverse. She's been on an 'infinite nested fiction' kick recently, and I gotta say, I'm digging it. I mean, it's no 'Ringo,' but then, what is?" He chuckles to himself. "'Ringo.'" He says it like a complete idiot, exaggerating and stretching out the vowels. There's just something about that name that tickled him pink, and the novelty still hasn't worn off.

"I recall you being catastrophically butthurt that anybody would toy with your shiny boys' legacy."

"You recall correctly," he says, snapping the ball into his palm and standing up. "I admit it. I was hasty and presumptuous. Mary pulled it all together. 'The Beatles.' 'Arnold Palmers.' I've not doubted her genius since."

"Well, that is true enough," I concede. "She won herself a fan."

"She did." He's in loose, casual clothing, and I'm a little embarrassed that I didn't notice the obvious.

"Uh... no girls?"

He stops his dumb ball-tossing and looks around, as though just realizing it himself. "No ...

... girls! Huh."

I roll my eyes, accepting the sass. "Okay."

"How are you doing, Cor?" he asks. He's ever the master game player. I'm still not used to the tonal shifts. One moment he's flighty, the next sarcastic, the next sincere. Meanwhile, I'm not doing so good, and he already knows it.

"Not so good, John," I admit out loud.

He doesn't fucking care. You are so fucked up and stupid that you've somehow invented a new complete opposite of going to proper therapy.

I take my seat, and I start crying.

He knows we don't do touching. He sets down the ball, walks over slowly, and takes the seat opposite mine. It's the same pair of chairs where I first started getting to know him, and where he first got to talk to me in person, rather than studying me like a lab rat or some dead dickgirl from history. The awful thought occurs to me that my story seems no less written for not belonging to the latter.

"Still losing time," he says, radiating sympathy. "Still struggling with... thoughts."

Oh no! Not thoughts! Anything but those!

I nod and grab an expensive hand towel from the table beside me. They're here because of me. I honk, sniffle, and wipe.

"... And in some worlds there are no dickgirls. In some, no men. In some, nothing but futas. In an infinite upon infinite number of them, there's simply no life at all. In another chunk, it's inconceivable that life could be made of meat."

It's another thing we do. It's annoying, but strangely comforting. It gets ...