In Vegas, The Great was only 20 and I must say the boy drunk did not suffice as an underage boy being able to get drunk in Vegas.
He merely giggled and smiled more than usual.
Not good enough in my book!
A week later, The Great is finally turning 21 and inadvertently invites me to his festivities:
The Great: *nonchallantly with no emotion while frying vegan bacon in the kitchen at work* Hey, Jayla, remember that ONE TIME you didn’t look absolutely AWFUL? If you wanna come out for my birthday tonight you HAVE TO WEAR that EXACT outfit…cuz otherwise you’re not invited.
Me: *completely unphased by his more-of-a-back-hand-than-a-compliment and more excited than anything because nobody at work likes me or invites me anywhere* Really, Great?! I’m so there!!
The Great: *raising his voice but still not looking up from his fakon (fake bacon DUH)* OK well you better look good don’t embarrass me by looking ugly like you usually do!
Me: *still somehow not offended by his tyrannically misogynistic comment* Ok ok you got it!!
Truth be told I’m more excited to see how an emo Mexican hybrid gets down for his 21st birthday.
The Great prides himself on not speaking to anyone and rarely showing excitement for anything.
I can’t imagine how a celebration in his honor would turn out.
Turns out, Back Door Bitch is taking The Great and 3 of his friends to Jumbo’s Clown Room on Hollywood Boulevard, a novelty dive bar with a stripper pole inside for variously strange burlesque shows.
I…can’t even comprehend what this must look like.
Back Door Bitch and I have an interesting dynamic of sorts though, of which I only know for sure that we hate each other…kinda.
He incessantly tells me how awful my pussy smells while I relentlessly beg him to stick his useless uncircumcised dick in my ass.
Suffice it to say, between us, things are complicated.
The Great asks me to tell Boss Man about it as well, stating, “I want Boss Man to come! He goes hard. Can you ask him to come that would be INSANE if he did!!”
For some reason (ironically enough considering I’m the only girl in the company), I’m the only one who has the balls to ask Boss Man anything.
“Jayla ask Boss Man if we can have a Christmas party…Jayla ask Boss Man if we can have STRIPPERS at the Christmas Party!…Jayla ask Boss Man if he can pay for somebody to fuck us cuz we don’t have the balls to go out and get laid ourselves!”
Ok I made the last one up…but you get the picture.
Truth be told, Boss Man is the most intimidating man in the office…in fact he’s the most intimidating man IN MY LIFE and I’m sure everyone else’s.
He screams at professionals over the phones and tells them to go fuck themselves, he prides himself on only paying for sex from Brazilian hookers, he drives a Beamer, Range Rover, AND a Maserati (why would one man need all three?!), and refers to almost all people as retards, idiots, and people who should kill themselves if he doesn’t deem them good enough to be in his presence…which is mostly everyone he comes across.
While people in the office fear being in the way of his 30-year-old, angry, Boston-born Jew wrath, they also desperately strive to be SEEN in his eyes.
And I am no exception.
When I first started writing for 2GTS, I would submit my drafts to Boss Man via Skype across the gigantic Chatsworth, CA mansion out of which we worked, wait for no more than 30 seconds, and hear him SCREAM from his seat throughout the entire house, “THIS IS FUCKING DOG SHIT JAYLA!!!!! IT IS FUCKING GARBAGE!!! ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?! IT’S TERRIBLE!!!! FIX THIS HORSE SHIT!!!!” with all the boys listening and snickering in their seats.
I couldn’t believe he’d talk to me like that.
I was coming from a therapist working environment with 4 other women who would say things like, “How are you feeling today?” and “I love you I’m here for you if you need to talk!”
This…was a bit different.
My intense fear mixed with newfound humiliation in the work place only fueled my determination to have Boss Man like my work (or ME) even MORE.
When he WAS satisfied with my work, he’d simply say, “OK” and leave it at that…and my heart would SIIIIIIING until the next round of judgment.
The fact that Boss Man commands that much authority and domination over me and everyone else is fucking hot…and truth be told it makes me want him.
Only thing IS I still can’t decide if I wanna fuck him or BE him.
Sometimes I’d fantasize about riding him like a rhinestone cowgirl, completely unconcerned about catching whatever foreign-born-VD he might be carrying from all the hooker-buying across the world, while other times I’d fantasize about literally cutting open his skull, removing his brain, and replacing it with my own, only to drive off in the Maserati and pick up my OWN hookers, blow, and bad decisions all the way back to Hollywood.
ANYWAY, Boss Man agrees to come out for The Great’s birthday and even I’m surprised, for as much as he TELLS snippets about his private life, none of us have ever WITNESSED it.
While none of us have ever seen how Boss Man acts outside of work, in the same regard, none of the guys have ever seen how I get down outside of work either.
To them I’m the short, nerdy brown girl who types and giggles in the corner.
Back at my place, I put on my white tube top, black leggings, and thigh high leather boots while contemplating if I should even go.
I can only imagine how a night out at a strip club with my awkward techie coworkers and Boss Man would pan out.
I envision one of two things happening (although both happening is just as plausible):
1. Me getting disgustingly wasted to the point where I attempt to bed Boss Man and inevitably instead end up vomiting all over him and getting fired.
2. Getting way too horny for my own good to the point where I end up following one of the strippers into the bathroom to do lines of blow off her tits and end up home with her only to realize she’s actually 35 with a 12-year-old son.
Neither scenario is conducive to my work ethic or sense of morals (I don’t do parents) so my hesitation to go only grows with every descent of the elevator, as I make my way downstairs to catch a cab outside.
I hail down the first yellow taxi with its light on and hop in, stating, “Jumbo’s Clown Room on Hollywood and Normandie please?”
The brown middle-eastern driver looks me up and down and turns back around to state in a teasing, highly accented voice, “Ooooh! sumbuddy is in for a WIIILD night, yes?”
I roll my eyes as I text Boss Man, The Great, and Back Door Bitch to let them know I’m on my way, replying to the cab driver with, “Actually…let’s hope not.”