Thanks to the internet, children can study for school without spending hours and hours in the library with the weird old lady librarian, geeks can purchase the original soiled underwear that William Shatner wore in Episode #103 of Star Trek, and horny losers can download naked pictures of a porn star with one of the Olsen Twins' heads pasted onto the body.
Also thanks to the internet, dating or matchmaking has never been so simple or easy. You can meet a cute Swedish boy, or get rejected by a muscular boy from Italy. You'd be surprised how similar the phrase 'Let's just be friends' is in another language. Or 'You're just not my type'.
It's so unbelievably hard to write out a description about yourself that hasn't been done before without seeming like too much of a smartass or a pretentious idiot. 'Greek God seeking like match'. 'Starship Captain Looking to go Where No Man Has Gone Before'. 'Lonely Writer Looking for Muse.'
Okay. That last one was mine, and I am fully ready to admit how completely and utterly lame it was. I'm not even a writer, per se. I'm sure that by the end of this, you'll agree with me. I'm a pseudo-journalist, and although my day job is a beleaguered cubicle monkey, at night, I become Lucas the Independent Music and Movie Reviewer! (Lights! Glitter! Triumphant Burst of Sound!) I work at a temp agency during the day, muttering to myself about the idiocy of society, playing solitaire, and chatting online when my boss isn't around.
I'm sure everyone has had a boss like mine. He's kind of like the boss from 'The Office'. The brilliant UK version, not the shit US version, of course. Or 'Office Space', really. He's a portly (I'm being kind), self-absorbed, balding sixty-year old man who tells sexist jokes by the coffee machine from 10am – 10:12 am every morning. I don't know what it is about him, but something about him just squicks me right out..
I finally emptied my In-Box and sighed, stretching my fingers and working on a review for the magazine so I could send it into my editor and stop getting the harassing phone calls at night. 'Where's my copy, Lucas? Are you done, Lucas? DO I HAVE TO TAKE YOUR DOG AGAIN, LUCAS!?' .. Maybe not that bad, but you get the general idea. I've never been late with my articles – but I have squeezed some in at the last second.
"Ah, good morning, Lucas. "
"Good morning, sir." I minimized the window and looked sadly at the stack of papers my boss held in his hand.
"Think you can get these done for me by lunchtime?"
"Good man. Good man." He patted me on the shoulder and set the stack down. It'd take me fifteen minutes to do, but since I had til lunchtime, there was no rush.
I saw an instant message appear on my screen a couple of minutes later.
LeatherCowboy: hey sexy
I'd been talking to the guy for a week or so now, and he seemed decent, if not a big perverted. He'd hinted that he'd make me call him 'Daddy', and as much as I highly doubted it, the tiny part of my mind that was a blatant pervert was intrigued. Plus, with a name like LeatherCowboy, the sex was probably going to be pretty good.
Don't get me wrong – I'm not just out to get sex, but considering it'd been months since my last boyfriend and I broke up, I was feeling a little lonely, and a one night stand couldn't hurt. (Yes, with protection, -Mom-. I'm horny, not stupid.)
LeatherCowboy: whats going on?
VelvetUnderground: Nothing, just sifting through more pointless bullshit at work.
LeatherCowboy: Oh me too. I took a pic of myself for you last night. Wanna see?
I bit the bullet and clicked the 'accept' button, waiting for it to load. As it loaded, my stomach clenched, and my penis whimpered and curled up within itself. I stared at the half-nude body of my sixty year old boss, wearing nothing but cowboy boots, a leather thong, a cowboy hat, and a red bandanna.
His pale, hairy gut stared me in the face as I frantically hit the little 'x' in the corner of the window. I bit back a silent scream as it was at that point that my boss was coming back. Finally, I managed to close the picture just as he showed up at my cubicle.
"How's the paperwork going, Lucas?" He asked, and this time, I noticed him undressing me mentally. I shuddered.
"G.. good, sir. "
"You look pale. Coming down with something?"
"I.. that must be it." I forced a smile. "I'll have some chicken soup and Nyquil tonight and I'll be fine."
"Good. Can't have you going away." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Bend over and call me Daddy."
I stared. "Wh.. what?!"
He blinked at me. "… I said call me when the paperwork's ready." He looked a little confused. My heart was racing.
"W.. Will do!"
He walked off, and I let out a sigh of relief.
LeatherCowboy: ;) So, what do you think?
VelvetUnderground: I gotta go, my boss is coming.
I closed the message and hit 'block'. God. All I could see was my boss in a leather thong spanking me with this quarter's expense reports. The only cure was to rent a nice pornographic film on the way home.
Another message popped up just as I was about to exit out of the program.
GhettoAstronaut: Hey, there.
VelvetUnderground: Hey. Before we start, are you a three hundred pound, sixty year old man who wants me to call him Daddy?
GhettoAstronaut: No, no, and yes.
I bit back a laugh.
VelvetUnderground: Sorry. It's a long story.
I talked to him for the rest of the day, and I actually felt like I'd known him forever. We had a lot in common.. well, almost everything in common, and I felt disappointed when I had to go home. My computer was being bitchy, and the repair shop wasn't done with it yet.
VelvetUnderground: Sorry, it's time for me to go home.
GhettoAstronaut: Same here. We can talk tomorrow.
VelvetUnderground: I'll look forward to it. Oh. I'm Lucas, by the way. Luke.
GhettoAstronaut: I'm Dylan. It's nice to meet you.
I signed off and floated home, not forgetting, of course, to get the porno. Internet crush or not, I still had to get my half-naked boss out of my head.
Author's Note: Thanks to my own stupidity, this is a re-write of the first chapter. So it will be different, but I tried to keep it as close to the original as I could. Thanks for reading