The Company InkPosted: April 10, 2016
When Boss Man pulled me aside last Friday at work, and told me he was “bailing” on our plan to go back to his place and get naked, I was not entirely surprised. I did, however, feel like shit. I told him it was okay. And then I asked him why.
“It’s too complicated,” he said slowly. “I’m your supervisor. Intimacy isn’t…it just doesn’t feel right.” His eyes were an incredibly sad blue. “We can be friends,” he added.
I nodded, and said I understood. And then I spent the rest of the day feeling awkward and humiliated.
I had propositioned my supervisor. A man I would have to see every day for as long as I held this job. A man I considered my friend. My supervisor!
I am ridiculous, I berated myself.
I am not good enough for him.
I am beyond stupid.
I am going to have to resign and get the hell out of here so I don’t have to see him every day.
I managed to make it through the rest of the day without crying. He returned the panties I’d stealthily handed him during a “meeting” earlier and told me to have a good weekend. I made it halfway home before the tears fell.
Why am I crying? What the hell is wrong with me? I demanded.
You are crying because you are a stupid, stupid slut who makes very bad decisions.
I arrived home and drank two glasses of wine, while Googling articles on dealing with rejection. I ate dinner and gave the kids a bath and went for a jog. I deleted my text messages with Boss Man, as well as his number, so I wouldn’t contact him.
I drank more wine until I was numb.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I woke in bed on my tear soaked pillow, that I understood.
I like him. I really fucking like him. I like him a lot.
We joke around to the point that at our last team meeting, one of the higher ups laughed that we are not allowed to sit beside each other anymore. When he makes decisions other staff don’t agree with, they comply. I am one to voice my disagreement, and we have repeatedly found ourselves heatedly arguing.
When we started sexting, we both said that when this happens, all we actually want to do is rip each others clothes off and violently fuck.
But aside from the joking and fighting, we talk. A lot. We know more about each other than most people know about either of us. We share cigarettes and secrets. When we drive together for work, we talk about our marriages (his failed), his mother’s death, my mother’s mental illness, our own battles with depression.
There is something real between us. And while I was afraid that I’d ruined it, my heart hurt, because I knew I wanted more than his friendship and his cock. I wanted him–all of him–period.
When I saw him again at work, things were normal. We joked. We bantered. We shared long, lingering looks that made me melt and drove me mad with wanting. By the end of the week, our innuendo was back.
Then we were texting again, but without the graphic content.
Somewhere in there, I ended up telling him I had feelings for him. He said he liked me too.
Then I actually said, and I quote, “Yes, but do you like like me?”
He laughed and said he did. “And truth be told, I would date the fuck outta you, but we have different philosophies on sex and relationships that would likely never align.”
“Because you’re monogamous?,” I asked.
“Once I reach a certain point with a girl, yes. Plus, I’m your supervisor. I don’t like courting trouble.”
“But I AM trouble!,” I replied.
“Do you want me to get over you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “Neither of us is ever going to get what we want out of it.”
“Okay,” I typed back sadly. “I’ll try.”
We said good night, and that was, I thought, the end of it.