Corona Curios - the throbbing member
Too early? Inappropriate response to a global emergency? Then this one's probably not for you. Give yourself a break and it a miss. I'm not sure my ego could take a flurry of disgusted single stars.
For the rest of you miscreants. Enjoy. My government has told me we all need to pull together. I assume their pun was intended. And where better to do that than here?
I've a couple more ideas for stories set against the current crisis. But if the concept grabs you and you want to join in, please do. I'm not precious. Comments, support and criticism always appreciated. And remember to wash your hands when you've finished.
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Of course, like most blokes my age, I had one overriding concern, sitting at home at the end of week one of my isolation, watching things deteriorate world-wide. The blustering leaders, who only days before had been dismissing all worries and concerns, we're now playing catch up big time. Money, the primary concern of nearly all of them, was being promised in huge amounts to any legitimate science business or snake-oil grifter who looked like they had a plausible formulation which could be passed off as a miracle cure.
That, of course, was all very well for the plastic-clone newsreaders, the balding commentators in ill-fitting suits and the vox-popped interviewees - all elderly - spoken to over Skype. But for the rest of us? Younger and fitter even if already middle-aged. What about us? What was being done to get us answers to that constant nagging concern?
Would we ever get laid again?
For me, the whole ordeal, started by accident. My own fault again. I'd been visiting my neighbour the night before. Nice old boy. Bit lonely and certainly went on too much about the old days. There are only so many times you want to hear about all the Grateful Dead gigs there ever were. Am I right? You know I am. What redeemed him though was his stock of primo, home-grown grass. He had a great set-up, a foil-lined wardrobe held a hydroponic system warmed by ultra-violet tubes. Two or three healthy plants at a time gave a crop big enough for him and a couple of his mates. The only problem was the seeds. He complained every time I saw him that the modern hybrids were always more harsh than those he'd used in his youth, even though the buzz was so much stronger.
I thought about his words as I coughed my way to the office the next day, throat sore and head still a bit fuzzy. I wandered over to Gloria, our receptionist, like I did every morning. An accommodating girl, our Gloria. Her seat, set low behind the reception desk by an interior designer with a breast fetish, guaranteed a decent view down her cleavage. She did her bit by keeping at least the top three buttons on the company-issued blouse permanently undone. I wasn't the only guy who liked to start their day with a good look down the cleft between those double-Ds whilst ostensibly checking to see if there was urgent mail.
How was I to know that corona-steria had struck the company overnight? Turns out, someone in one of the satellite offices had had to be tested after going down with the right symptoms. By the time the negative result came through it was too late. WhatsApp groups were abuzz from the start with scare mongering. Desperate idiots went on and on about how they'd met her at a company retreat six months before and should they be tested too? In turn, their contacts started worrying. Everyone couched their concern in terms of wanting to protect children or elderly parents. The colleagues at her home base were in full-funk mode.
I was about to ask Gloria out for a drink after work like I did most mornings when the coughing fit started. By the time I got back from soothing it at the water cooler, it was already too late. My boss shouted at me from behind his half-open, plate-glass door that I should go home immediately and stay there for a week. I laughed, I genuinely thought he was joking. When I stepped towards him to explain more privately why I'd been coughing he slammed the door shut. I heard Gloria cry out and saw her emerge from behind his back.
I turned to try and find someone more sensible, but the situation was beyond salvaging. You'll have seen somber videos with CGI viruses bouncing from one person to another with a classical requiem playing in the background. Corona-steria spread through the offices like that too. People around me grabbed anything they could to clamp over their mouths and noses. The cleaner's old rags went instantly. Loose paper and company advertising leaflets were crumpled up and pressed into service. One of the girls started tearing at the bottom of her blouse - they all had to wear the flimsy garments, opaque enough to be arguably decent, but thin enough to display the clear outline of underwear especially when light shone strongly through the wall-to-ceiling office windows - she was soon naked from the waist up as desperate colleagues shredded her top for protection of their own. Two guys from the post room were pulling at her purloined bra, each wanting a rose-embroidered B-cup, virus protector, ideally sized to cover mouth and nose.
In minutes I was alone. Muffled shrieks were of women fleeing me, or desperate mask-hunters seeking to divest them of their clothes. The slamming of office doors and the scraping of desks pressed into service for makeshift barricades, echoed around. The poor cleaner, an elderly woman of Middle Eastern origin - she and I had always been cordial in the past - cowered in a corner. Too lowly to be allowed access to an office, she hid behind her trolley and waved an aerosol of a proprietary wood polish in my direction like it was some kind of military-grade tear gas.
My boss had taped up a hastily-scrawled note advising they'd e-mail me work I could do at home. Gloria was so obviously grateful he'd stepped up to save her from me, she was on her knees sucking at his dick like a congregant waiting for communion. My last work image was of them both toppling to the floor as he overstretched trying to reach the button which would change the Venetian blinds to
screen
.
I thought about what had happened on the bus on the way back home. It was good to get out into a saner world. I did notice that no one was sharing seats, later passengers preferring to stand if there were no double-benches free. But conversation was lively as pensioners using their bus passes swapped tales of the war and blitz-spirit, unfazed by the fact that none of them were old enough to have actually experienced it. I called in at the supermarket to stock-up on whatever essentials were still available. The only evidence of hoarding I witnessed was a middle aged woman who barged me out of the way when she spotted a check out was free. She was clutching six large boxes of chocolates to her chest and was swinging a basket containing nothing but two smaller ones. Clearly a woman on a highly-tailored diet, I thought, probably something medical.
So by the time I got home, I was feeling pretty good about being forced out of the office. Watery sunbeams were shining through almost-clean windows onto bald patches in the carpet I never normally saw because of the times of day I was there. I ate a sandwich and tried to listen to the radio. The banality of the news was on a par with the music the overly enthusiastic DJs were playing on other channels. I decided to see what TV had to offer. If anything it was worse. The Botox-frozen bonhomie of the daytime hosts gave the same degree of trivial-inconsequentiality to all the stories they covered, be they mass deaths in China or the prospects of various football teams in games destined never to be played. There was nothing for it, I decided, I'd have to log on to my computer and see what work wanted me to do.
Nothing.
Or to be more accurate, absolutely nothing. I e-mailed my manager, copying in HR in case he'd forgotten to tell them I was not allowed back on the premises, and checked in once an hour for the next twenty-four.