And So I Waited…
Phil Petrol, the VP of Ad sales was supposed to call me 8:30 PM yesterday. Although I had the chance to save my dignity and abscond, I actually ended up staying in my office, perusing though
PerezHilton.com for gossip. Every fibre of my being said “Go home, don’t wait for this idiot,” But part of me was curious, why had he suddenly asked me out?
At 9:00 PM I got tired of waiting. So I left my office in search of something to eat. I told myself, “If he doesn’t call by the time I eat, then I’ll just get on the tube and go home.”
I headed off to McDonalds and bought a happy meal for £1.99. Whenever I buy a
happy meal I pretend that it’s for my non-existent kid which seems less embarrassing than admitting you’re a cheapskate. The cashier didn’t take the bait, hence I didn’t receive a fun, yet useless happy meal toy.
After I ate, still there was no call, no text, nothing from him. So I thought to myself, “If he doesn’t call by the time I get to
Chancery Lane, I’ll get on the tube and go home.”
I got to Chancery Lane. Not a word from him. I got on the Central Line and headed to Bank. I changed trains to the DLR. It seemed to take ages for a train towards Canary Wharf to arrive. I passed the time by playing
Breakout on my Blackberry.
As soon as the train surfaced above ground I received a text message from him. He says he’s on his way and that he’ll meet me in Covent Garden in 30 minutes. Damn, not enough time to go home. Too much time to go directly there, but whatever. For once in my life I was ridiculously early.
I arrived at Covent Garden and watched a street performer play an acoustic version of Blondie’s “Call me.” Out of sheer boredom I played a few more games a Breakout, beating my all-time high score. I called, the Voice-of-Reason in New York. I called a friend in Spain. I called another friend in LA.
While I was on the phone I got a text from Phil Petrol saying that he’ll be 10 more minutes and he’s on his way. It was past 10PM now.
What the fuck am I doing? It’s 10:30 on a school night and I’m waiting here in Covent Garden like an idiot. What did I really think was going to happen.
15 minutes later he arrives. He looks good. He’s wearing a light blue Armani shirt and dark trousers. He has a posh yet difficult to place accent. Apparently he’s a child of the world, having grown up in 4 different counties. At times he sounds English, then mildly Australian, bizarrely Canadian cross ed with posh American boarding school type accent; think Julianne Moore in
The Big Lebowski.He apologize for being late explains that he was at a business dinner with some folks from Nintendo; that he’s negotiating to get a free Wii and a Wii fit, for his own personal benefit. My God! I’m playing second fiddle to a piece of exercise equipment!
We go to one of the many pubs in area all the while I’m trying to figure out his agenda. I want to know:
- What does he want?
- Is it appropriate for me to be hanging out with a married man past 8PM in the evening?
- Does his wife know where he is?
He buys me a white wine and orders the same for himself. We talk about work stuff. It’s nothing out of the ordinary except that it’s nearly 11PM. Surely, he could have talked about work stuff at work, no?
The pub calls last orders. We finish our wine then search for another pub. We end up at the Walkabout – ugh! For those of you not from London, the
Walkabout is a cheesy Australian-themed pub. Young crowd. Party atmosphere. Loud music Faux Australian culture. Basically everything I detest in a pub. But we had little choice. As the Voice-of-Reason would say, “Any port in a storm.”
We order a bottle of white wine and take a seat in the back. Phil Petrol keeps mentioning the low-cut top I wore during the Christmas party. I try to visualize what I was wearing, but I can’t quite remember.
“I’m sure I remember you telling me at the Christmas party that you were gay,” he says to me.
“No, I’m not. I must have been joking if I said that.”
“It just weird’s me out, man. Cuz, well, you know…”
“No, I don’t know,” I say challenging him.
“Cuz, well, I, um, well, I was looking at your breasts that night. And I had these thoughts.”
“Like thoughts that I was gay?”
“It’s this top you were wearing. So low cut. And I kept looking at your breasts.”
“Well, yes. They’re there to be stared at,” I say jovially.
“But, well, after that night. I put you in another category.”
“The gay category?”
“Just that category where nothing would ever happen between us.”
I sense a slippery slope here, but I pursue with the questioning. “Shouldn’t I have always been in that category?
He seems nervous; tongue tied, and a bit frustrating at me for not being able to understand him. He takes a deep breath.
“I fancy you,” he states, “There. I’ve said it. And when you wore that low cut top I thought about what it would be like to suck your nipples.”
I barely raise an eyebrow. I’ve been down this path before with the
BFE,
CS,
the DG, and
the Shark. Suddenly, I’m not feeling so naïve.
“Cool,” I say in a confident and bitchy way that could only suggest I have his balls in my hands and I’m calling the shots.
“And I think about how great it would be to lie naked with you,”
I don’t ask the obvious questions:
- How long have you felt this way?
- What about your wife?
- What about your kids?
Instead, I ask him more pertinent questions:
- How often do you masturbate?
- What are your top three things to do in bed?
- Do you have an erection right now? [and I feel for proof]
He seems thrown by the conversation. He pauses for long periods of time before he speaks. As if he had been anticipating a conversation with me, but not quite this conversation.
I tease him a bit. I lean in and go for a kiss. I put my hand on his crotch. I can feel raging hard on beneath his trousers. His kisses are nice, gentle. He has plump lips; almost as big as mine, but not quite.
We spend twenty minutes kissing. We finish the bottle of wine. By then he’s begging me to set a day where he can leave work early and come over to my place.
“Why? “ I ask him. “I mean, what’s in it for me?”
But this point I was quite drunk. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember his answer was so pathetically laughable; merely a flimsy excuse to fuck.
I’m evasive. I tell him, ‘sometime in the future, maybe.” Still, he presses me for a time, a day. I don’t give in.
We exit the walk about and walk towards Piccadilly Circus so we can both catch our respective night busses. We’re walking and then suddenly he turns and pins me against the wall. I can feel his cock pulsating against my leg. He kisses me and then kisses me some more. “I want you Anjelika.”
I feel my pussy getting wetter. I was now officially horny.
We continue walking. I realize that I need to use the loo.
“I’m walking back to the office to use the bathroom,” I tell him.
“Oh, I have to use the bathroom too.”
“Quelle coincidence!” I say ironically.
“No, really, I do,” he insists. Whatever!
It takes 20 minutes to walk back our office building. I go in first. The office is silent and empty. The lights are out in the women’s bathroom. I pee, then wash my hands and check my make up to see if it’s okay. What the hell? It’s midnight and I look fabulous—or at least as fabulous as I will look at this hour.
As I walk to my desk I past the board room. He’s standing in the doorway of the board room urging me to come in.
“I’ll be back in a couple minutes. I have to go to my desk,” I tell him.
I continue on to my desk. I had received an urgent e-mail on my Blackberry from one of our producers in California. I need to send some files to her before the end of business day in LA. I send the files that were needed. I answer a few more e-mails. I check my MySpace page. I play another game of Brickbreaker. Then, I get up and go to the board room.
I open the door and there is Phil Petrol standing before me completely naked.
And his cock is massive!
Labels: cheating married guys, cock, cock size, Masturbation, Phil Petrol, relationships
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