Look, I am a reasonable person, but we just live in an unreasonable world.
Yeah, it's that kinda day.
I've busted my knuckles more times than I can count it's just a hazard of working with engines and big tools. You get used to it, and you keep glue or bandaids on hand. I've washed motor oil outta my hair plenty of times, and it doesn't even bother me anymore. Hell, my hair is black anyway. A little motor oil won't hurt it. And if I had a dollar for every time some Johnny know-it-all tried to mansplain my job to me or really anything for that matter, I wouldn't need to work, like ever. But odds are, I still would in anticipation for that glorious day when the wrong person decides to fuck around because I'd let them find out in a fashion so grand it would earn me a spot on the evening news and possibly a restraining order.
It comes with the territory when you're a woman who works in a male-dominated industry. And you know what? It's given me some tough skin. Most of the time, I can let these shitty things roll right off my back. Today isn't one of those days, though.
Split knuckles aren't a great way to begin your day, but that's how my day started. The motor oil in my hair? Didn't exactly put me in a better mood, but, of course, they say bad things come in threes, don't they? And the third strike of having to tell my dad that his big client was going to have to wait another three weeks for their project bike because the new guy decided he knew better than me? Well, in the immortal words of Dorothy:
"Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in a functional workplace anymore."
I know I'm being bitchy, but let's be clear: I don't have an attitude problem; I have an idiot problem. And sadly, remedies are in short supply. I swear, if stupidity were excruciating, more people would think twice.
It's not the first time some twat-waffle in a shop second-guessed me, and it won't be the last.
Dad figured three days off to cool down might help, and he's not wrong. I'm sure I'll be in better spirits when I go back. But for now, I'm a miserable ball of spite. If those had been the only bad things to happen to me today, maybe I'd bitch less. But, oh no, there are no breaks on the pain train; mine just took on more passengers when I left work.
My favorite curry place had a line out the door, and I was already starving. You don't want me to be hungry; I'm not a happy person when I'm hungry. But ok, fine. I would just head home. No big deal, I can cook--but because I went out of my way to hit the curry place, I had a fifteen-minute walk to the nearest tube station. The skies were looking a little heavy, but hey--I hail from the dreary, overcast land of the Pacific Northwest. A little rain doesn't bother me; I find it soothing. But buckets of it getting dumped on you because you've convinced yourself that carrying an umbrella is for suckers? Let's just say pride should be just as painful as stupidity. I was soaked like a drowned rat when I reached the underground.
Did it get better when I got home, you ask? Why, no, it did not.
Because I live in a flat with shoddy plumbing that turns every shower into an Arctic expedition. At least the cold rain prepared me for the cold shower, so... silver lining, I guess?
But the final straw that broke this poor camel's back? The thing that has my eye twitching and inspires my inner serial killer?
My vibrator dying just as I was finally starting to warm up.
I'm a grown-ass woman, ok. I can hang with the boys, drink with the men, curse like a sailor, and I like fast and hard fun, be it with a bike or a guy--but goddammit, I feel like crying.
I'm not saying an orgasm would've fixed my day--my hands are still killing me, and my hair's still got that lingering eau de grease--even after a half-hour-long freezing shower. That idiot at Dad's shop probably still has a job--but it would've taken the edge off, you know? Something to make me feel human again. Something to quiet the angry little intrusive thoughts rolling around in my head that demand vengeance through blood tribute. Instead, I'm lying in bed, waiting for the damn thing to charge like it's the only thing standing between me and a full-on mental breakdown.
One orgasm won't fix it. But maybe three or four could get the job done.
I huff out a heavy sigh and sit up, grabbing my phone to scroll mindlessly through TikTok's thirst traps and BookTok recs. Then I wander aimlessly through apps for a full two minutes before I realize the truth: the orgasms probably won't do it for me, either.
Truth is not even that pretty purple rose or my little pink bullet has been cutting it since I met Ben.
I don't have the attention span for Candy Crush, so instead, I go to my photo albums and scroll through the last few pictures until I find it. The picture I snapped of him at the party.
Cig clutched in his fingers, t-shirt see-through with sweat from his and his friend's little improv rock show, his hair still damp and looking over his shoulder at me with that smirk of his. And the drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket? He's giving off a grown-up Calvin and Hobbes vibe.
It hasn't quite been a week. We texted back and forth a handful of times-- nothing too serious, just some flirty banter and a few pictures between two people who had mind-blowing sex. Several times. In bed. And in the shower. And back on the bed again before I stumbled my way out of his place, 100% owning my 'walk of shame' all the way back home, where I gave a full report to Stevie and Nicki.
Sexual orientation matters not when it comes time to spill about your latest conquest, and lord, did I spill.
I zoom in on that pretty face of his; he's got a dimple on his right cheek and something that looks like it could be a scar over his eyebrow. Little imperfections that only add to his appeal.
My home screen shows no new calls or text messages, and my expression sours a bit.
I told him to call me about that date, and he seemed so gun-ho about it, but still nothing. Never had a guy threaten me with multiple orgasms and overstimulation unless I agreed to go on a date with him. First time for everything, right? The last text he sent me yesterday. It was a picture of a Nirvana vinyl album in a discount store section. Salt on the wound.
I get the feeling he's not much of a texter. Pretty much anything he sent me was short and simplistic. He's the kind of guy who probably forgets he has a phone most of the time. Am I judging him based on the fact that he has an outdated phone, 37 app updates, and a cracked screen? Yes, yes, I am. I've been ghosted and stood up before but dammit this stings. I would have at least liked to see what that date was like.
The thought occurs to me that I haven't been this needy since my high school crush when another one hits me, and a Cheshire grin spreads across my face. I swing my legs over my bed and head to my dresser--and there it is. The little memento I nicked from him before I left: the shirt he had on. I swap out my tank top for the soft shirt, slipping it over my head.
It's one of Queen's 1985 Live Aid concert shirts. No, it's not an original vintage; those are like gold dust, especially here in London. I didn't run off with a rock & roll heirloom; it's just a reproduction. But it was one of the first things I noticed about him as I caught him eyeing me up at the party.
It stops at my upper thigh, and it's a bit baggy on me, but it's comfy--and it's definitely a look. One I know guys like. The typical guy's t-shirt and panties kinda thing. I'm not one for vanity but I'm confident to know I look good.
Sure, there are plenty of girls out there thinner than me or with nicer tits. Instagram is weird and annoying to me, and I don't know the first thing about taking pics of my food because I'm too busy scarfing it down like a Hobbit who missed a second breakfast. I'd be willing to bet good money that none of them can swing a wrench like I can. You wanna talk about replacing an ignition coil in a Norton Commando? I can do that blindfolded faster than you can say 'vroom-vroom.'
That's not to say I'm better than those other girls because it's not about who's better. I still like clothes and makeup and getting my nails done, I'm just different. Limited edition, if you will.
It was a bit ballsy, swiping his shirt like that. Guys get protective over that kinda stuff, but I've got a pretty good feeling about Ben; we'll see how it plays out. Wonder if he's realized it's missing yet?
No denying he's a Queen fan, that's for sure. I got major Roger Taylor vibes from him with that shaggy blond hair, and after that night we had? Oh, I'd say he's more than worthy of the 'Sex on Legs' nickname Roger used to rock back in the day.
He was good.
Work kept me busy all week, but honestly, he's kinda all I can think about now. That 70s-esque hair of his, and oh, my god, seeing him fall apart when I ran my hands through it? He loved that shit. Every shiver, every little
