An excerpt from the diary of Damian Weekes
THE excuse that I gave for attending the "Wetherall Roofing Supplies" Telemarketer training was that I needed a job. The reality was somewhat different.
When I had first discovered my power, (the nature of which regular readers of these chronicles would be well aware), I had been ecstatic. All women, I had thought, would be at my mercy. A few minutes conversation, a quick suggestion, and not only would their bodies be mine for the asking, but they would have already, by their own actions, rendered me into a state of total and perfect arousal. Not a woman, I thought, could walk abroad without embarrassment. I would be the King of saggy nylons. The prince of wrinkled knees.
Alas, the reality was far less exciting.
I was fast coming to the conclusion that whatever cosmic power controls these things was perpetrating upon me the cruellest of jokes. It had tempted me, allowed my hope to rise, and then ensured that there was no way that I could put the power to use. For in the six months since my last abortive attempt (chronicled elsewhere in these extracts) I had not so much as been alone with a woman.
An easy problem to solve, you might think. Simply take myself off to a bar. A club. A singles joint. A special-interest group. Friends, it isn't so easy. Yes, such places exist, yes I could even meet women there. But my looks (small, skinny, bespectacled), my chronic shyness (except when I was actually exercising my power), the fact that women who attend such places are inevitably in groups, all these situations mitigated against success.
So desperate was I for another chance to exercise my hypnotic abilities I was even casting my eyes over my sister.
And then, lying on my bed, the TV blaring unnoticed, a crumpled copy of Cleo (open at a pantyhose advertisement) open in my hand, I came to a decision. Tomorrow, I would get out of the house. Do something. Anything. Anything rather than lie on my bed, thumbing through my collection of hosiery advertisements, trying to work up the enthusiasm to masturbate.
It might be some measure of the state of my social life that accepting a job as a telemarketer, and arranging to arrange the day's (unpaid) training provided was the only alternative that offered itself. And so, at nine thirty AM, I presented myself at the scheduled place, tax file number and notebook in hand, and a sense of futility in my heart. I looked around without interest at the overweight, bespectacled, acne-prone hopefuls that would, if they and I accepted the position, be my companions, and settled down to await the person who was to present the course.
It was then that the gods finally gave me a break!
******
The person who had answered my initial telephone call had been a man, and when I had expressed an interest in the position I had been told that "Phil" would be presenting the course at nine-thirty sharp. And he had been correct.
But when Phil entered the room, my heart gave a small leap, my loins tightened, and I sat up with interest.
Shortening names is not uncommon of course. And a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, with short, tightly-curled blonde hair, legs shaped like that of most models and a bosom that rearranged the contours of her tight business-jacket is as entitled to do so as anyone else. Phillippa, after all, is a name that cried out to be shortened.
My eyes travelled along the length of her body. She had high cheekbones, a pair of deep blue eyes, that fell just short of being cornflower, and her neck was set off by a small gold chain, the device borne by which was hidden below the open neck of her white blouse. Her suit was a dark maroon, that fell just short of being pink, made of some shimmery material that flashed and undulated provocatively as she moved. Her skirt was short, but not aggressively so, the hem sitting midway between crotch and knee. She wore two inch clunky heels, in a discreet black.
But it was what was between the hem and the shoes that held my interest.
Even an expert like me cannot tell, simply by looking, the make of a pair of hose. The type of hose (ie be them stockings, pantyhose or thigh-highs) perhaps. There are certain clues not really relevant here (send a request to this web page if you're interested). As to make... even I have to rely on guesswork.
But I could always tell if a pair of nylons are bargain basement specials, or an expensive, dressy evening brand. And these were certainly the latter.
They were black, to match her shoes. A hint to fans of nylonic disarrangement here... "evening brands" by which I mean the sheer, luxurious kind are far more prone to bagging and sliding than everyday ones, for the reason that the price for that luxury is a higher concentration of nylon in the blend. But these were (I cursed to notice it) immaculate.
Still, the legs were well worth seeing in their own right, and when she dropped her whiteboard-marker and bent to pick it up, the sight of the black seam of the hose across the white crotchpiece of her panties cheered me no end.
"Phil" turned towards the whiteboard and began to pin up some pre-prepared scripts that the chosen ones were to use when they began work, and as she stretched the skirt rose, revealing more of her thighs. She turned back, tugged down her jacket, and smiled.
This, I thought to myself, is going to be good!
******
Disillusionment set in quickly.
Yes, Phillipa was sexy enough, and yes, she had a smile that could have melted snow. But after the first initial joy at the sight of her, my over-riding emotion was one of frustration. No matter how much she bent, stretched or sat, the nylons remained firmly in place. By the time we went for out lunch break, I was ready to sob in disappointment, and as I sat brooding over my machine-supplied espresso and stale doughnut, there was blackness in my heart.
What's the use, I moaned to myself. What's the use of this fucking shitty power, if I can't use it! How the hell can I hypnotise her. I can hardly do it in front of the whole lot of them.
Not for the first time, I wished I had never discovered my ability.
In fact, I was so busy brooding on my lot, I almost missed the chance.
******
Just as I was about to get up from the lunchroom table, junk the fast-cooling coffee and return to the lecture room, Phillipa herself came in. There were a couple of my colleagues around the table, (I had been talking to them, but don't ask me what I said. I have the ability to hold conversations on auto-pilot... remember I've worked in retail) and, one by one, they got up and left. Phillipa was making notes on a clipboard, and apart from an initial "hello" had said nothing to me. But now, as I saw we were alone, I cleared my throat and spoke her name.
She looked up, and I began to speak. Trivialities about what she had been telling us, a few questions. But all in a particular tone of voice, a particular intonation. Though I had not had a chance to use my power in earnest for many months, I had been practising. Or maybe, since this was not the first time I had done this, it was getting easier. Whatever the reason, it took only a few minutes before her eyes took on that glazed, attentive look that meant she was in my thrall.
A few instructions, the mandatory instruction to forget the conversation had taken place, and a reminder that what I wanted her to do would be done whenever I tapped my pen upon my palm. And I was even back at my place before lunch break had finished.
******
"You must remember that the customer wants to buy our product," she was saying, in that husky voice that, sexy as it was, I had grown to despise, when I decided to test the proficiency of my suggestion. Carefully, casually, I tapped the pen upon my left palm.
There was a few seconds, when I thought that I had failed.
"The customer needs the security and warmth that a Wetherall roof can provide. You must believe in the - "
And then, stopping in mid stream, she looked down at her legs, at her still immaculate pantyhose.
