Guess Who Came To Visit?

Concentration is an act of will power, an act of mind over matter, an act of focusing on something to the exclusion of all else.

All the concentration in the world is not helping you, this fine spring morning, focus on the line after line, page after page, of COBOL code spread out on the desk.

The job seems insurmountable.

The problem seemed simple enough on the surface. Someone had lost a decimal point in the program, just a simple little dot, a period. Common sense would lead any simpleton to believe it should not be too hard to find.

The problem is simple, easy to detect, and potentially disastrous. It moves the decimal point one place to the right in all calculations that the program makes. So ten times ten reads one thousand and so on. A clear, concise problem, one that could increase a dormant savings account with $100.00 in it to $100,000,000, In just a few months of monthly interest calculations.

Clear and concise it may be, but easy to find it is not.

"Jesus", you muse to yourself, "This is not complicated. This is not Albert Einstein math. This is a simple glitch in a program. Any competent moron should be able to find it". Competent you are, there is no doubt about that. You are the highest priced independent software consultant in the area and are good enough to command $250.00 an hour for your services, and get it fairly regularly but the success has not been without a price in your personal life.

Frustrated, eyes sore from staring uncomprehendingly for hours on end at endless sheets of code, you raise your head once again to examine your temporary surroundings.

Cyber Solutions, your current temporary employer, occupies 5 floors of this Seattle high rise, and is expanding monthly, or rather will continue to expand, if you find this glitch. Seated in your glass enclosed office, in the center of the floor you have the facility to look in all directions through the Thermopane, sound deadening glass at dozens and dozens of small work cubicles each filled with computers, monitors, printers and dozens of little worker bees doing their assigned tasks.

"God, if I could only do my job like they are doing theirs maybe they could look forward to having a pay packet beyond the next one." The fact is if they were paying you $.25 per hour you would be over charging them.

Your temporary office is sound proof and the hustle and bustle of the main office should be visible but you should not be able to hear the whirling of the computers and the clicking of the printers. However, you can. The sound is penetrating the room as a result of the efforts of a maintenance man who is replacing the sound proof glass, sheet by sheet, with a thicker, tinted variation to add to the visual privacy of the exposed office. It would also appear that the glass is of the one way variety.

The installer, intent on his task, totally ignores you as he diligently works away at the job, sheet by sheet. Subconsciously, you would like to lash out at him, blaming him for your inability to concentrate, but deep down you know that would be unfair, yes, untrue. Just an ordinary man doing his job.

The problem with the lack of concentration has nothing to do with this task or the workman. Deep down you can admit this only to yourself. The problem is totally personal and one that cannot be discussed with anyone not even your best friend if you were lucky enough to have one, which you are not. Another byproduct of the career you have chosen another personal sacrifice to the hours you have to keep.

Your marriage, after years of decline due to your neglect, has ended in a nasty, vindictive divorce. Publicly, you blamed your husband, but, secretly, you know it is your fault. The lawyers have finally finished picking the bones and you, and your ex-partner are finally free of each other to build a new, separate life. However, it is not as easy as it once was.

Years of mental turmoil at home and the demands of an uncertain job market in the field of software consultancy have taken their toll. You smoke far too much, you are seriously overweight, bite your nails, and have a quick furtive manner about you much like a timid hunted animal caught in the mesmerizing lights of a car.

Physically and mentally you are not ready for the singles life. Deep down in your heart of hearts you know why you cannot concentrate. Like the computer problem the symptoms are abundantly clear, at least to you. As like the computer problem the solution is far more elusive, if not unattainable.

Your concentration is being spoiled by frustration, pure and simple, sexual frustration. You miss getting regularly fucked by that asshole to which you were married. Useless for everything else, he sure knew how to press your buttons.

Just the thought of some of the things, the private things you did to each other and the places you did them makes you start to moisten. Nothing can replace that big, warm, thick cock pounding up your channel, probing, prodding, inching its way up until you thought it was going to worm its way past your tonsils and out your mouth.

God, you miss that, but only that!

You mentally blush at such lewd thoughts.

You shake your head in an effort to return to reality and regain your concentration.

The fact remains that the fucking you were getting was not worth the fucking you were taking from that asshole.

So, here you are, at 49 so sexually frustrated that you cannot even concentrate on your job and no possibly solution on the horizon. Your hormones, if nothing else, tell you exactly what you need to regain your power of concentration.

To put it in simple, basic terms you need to get fucked. You need some moronic stud to lay nine inches of All-American muscle into you. You need to lay on your back with your knees splayed apart and your cunt totally exposed while some nameless, faceless walking dick drives it into you so hard, so fast and so deep you walk around for two days, bowlegged, with a silly crossed eyed grin on your face. You need him to dump a lot of his seed into you that is so massive that you need to wear Tampons for two days just to keep it from running down your legs. This, and only this, is going to return your powers of concentration. What you need is clear. How you're going to get it is another matter entirely.

Sexually frustrated, your low self-esteem prevents you from being aggressive on the singles scene.

The lousy bastard knew all the hurtful things to say. The constant cracks about your weight, your mammoth breasts all hit home. Every hateful word was like being pounded by a baseball bat but it didn't stop with the utterance. The hurt still lingers long after he has passed from the scene.

Your opinion of yourself has sunk so low that you are incapable of making a pass at a man or reacting to one, if by some miracle, some fool made one.

You would even be grateful for a mercy fuck at this stage of the game. Anything, even a rape, would be preferable to returning home again tonight to an empty apartment and your cyber sex pals on the net.

"God, what I wouldn't give for 6 inches of real meat between my legs rather than twelve inches of fantasy", you think.

Reluctantly, you drop your eyes back down and try, once again, to concentrate in finding that elusive mistake in the program which makes the half million dollars invested in writing it a total waste of money.

You will yourself to work, to concentrate.

It's mind over matter, brains over hormones, intellect over emotions.

You bear down on the task at hand as your pussy continues to itch and you constantly squirm in your seat.

Line by line you plod on with the code. Page by page with no guarantee that you will recognize it when you see it, or for that matter, you have not already unknowingly passed over it.

Approaching 10:00 A.M. and coffee break time you receive yet another visit from Richard Rogers, the head of the department responsible for the useless program.

Richard has visited six times a day since you started this assignment. You understand his concern, his anxiety about the program but the pressure is not helping. After all, they would not have brought you in unless they had been totally stumped.

Richard enters your temporary workspace with a superficial smile on his face, which unsuccessfully masks his inner concerns.

The $2000.00 per day fee is eating into his contingency fund very quickly.

"How's it going, Phyllis? Anything I can do to help?"

You smile wanly at him.

"Yes"

"Name it and you got it". He answers eagerly.

"Give me the brain of Albert Einstein and the concentration of an IBM mainframe", you quip.

"If I could give you those I wouldn't need you, would I?"

"Finding it difficult to concentrate? Anything I can do to help? Is Randy disturbing you?"

For the first time in an hour you glance at Randy quietly working on the window frames on the far side of the office and, involuntarily, do a double take.

The hair is cut differently and he has a salt and pepper moustache, but Richard and Randy look enough alike to be brothers, even twins.

You look again even more closely.

Yes, they are twins.

You look askingly at Richard.

He smiles at you.

"Yes, my younger brother, my younger "twin" brother. He was born five minutes after me and I never let him forget it."

Turning away from you, he catches Randy's eye, and, raising his hands, he begins to talk to Randy using sign language.

They talk for several minutes and, finally, Richard turns his attention back to you.

"It is unfortunate, but Randy was born deaf and dumb and has had to struggle all his life to overcome this handicap."

"It is amazing how much prejudice exists towards the handicapped people in this world."

"When I was promoted to this position I was able to get Randy hired in the maintenance department. He is very good with his hands, among other things. He never married so his needs are not as great as others."

You look at Richard in a new light. You see him as a considerate, caring family orientated man who realizes, if you fail to find the problem, he will lose his job and his brother, totally blameless, will also pay as well with no one to protect him.

It's almost as if you can read Richard's mind at this moment and he yours.

"Yes, Phyllis, you could say I have a lot riding on you right now."

He pulls out the visitor's chair in front of your desk and sits down looking directly at you.

"Is there anything, anything I can do to help with your concentration?"

You simply shake your head and, flushing deeply, caste your eyes back down on your desk.

"I see," he says.

Embarrassed, he looks down.

Quickly, he says, looking at you again,

"We all get lonesome and have our needs."

"It must be hard, being recently divorced, on your own, working the hours you do, to find suitable male acquaintances in a social situation."

As you start to protest that he has misread the situation, you hold back the lie and let him continue.

"I am married, but there are times that I resort to relieving the stress that I experience in the work place, not with my wife, but in my own private fantasy world. I find that by escaping into my mind, briefly, I can refresh myself and re-focus my concentration."

"For example, what if you fantasize that when you went home to-night and had supper and a nice warm shower or bubble bath, and then you got into your nightie and bathrobe and slippers?"

"Then you went into the living room at 7:00 P.M, sharp and unlocked the front door. You turn on the television and sit on the sofa with a sleeping mask over your eyes."

"You would have all your senses available to you except your sight."

"What might happen to you? Nothing, probably. But maybe, just maybe, a burglar might try the door or a rapist might try to enter. I always find that the fantasy, tinged with reality, is almost as good as the real thing."

"You never know, maybe even I might drop by and try the door. If I find it unlocked I will know that you are receptive to my advances and if it is not, well, no harm no foul."

Shocked, you say nothing.

Richard says nothing further.

He gets up and leaves with this parting comment:

"I have a lot riding on you. I will do anything to get you focused."

"You are the best there is."

"If you can't help our goose is cooked. We will all pay the price."

He looks at his brother one last time and gives him a friendly wave good-bye and is gone.

The suggestion is so bizarre that you almost dismiss it out of hand.

Then again, what did he suggest?

Did he simply offer the concept of fantasy as a way to relieve stress or, did he offer to stop by your house and throw a fuck into you to get you re-focused on the critical job at hand?

It goes without saying that Richard must be desperate to make, or even to suggest or allude to such an offer if that is, in fact, what it was.

It is obviously not something he has ever done. No one could possibly mistake him for a stud, not that he is the opposite. In his late 40's, salt and pepper hair, clean-shaven, he is the arch-typical, middle level bureaucrat. Quiet, refined, normally well mannered and respectful of all his employees, he is a role model for being politically correct. There has never. ever been even a whisper in the industry that he has even been anything but correct around female co-workers.

You, on the other hand, may not be Jane Fonda but you certainly any dog.

Stressed and overweight, you do the best you can with the assets you have available to you. You select your clothing carefully, your jewelry is tasteful and never overdone and your hair is always done in a modern, sassy way.

Your best feature are your deep-set chocolate eyes, sloe eyed you have read somewhere. Many a man has said they are like a flashing neon sign, which reads "ready, willing and wet, come fuck me."

Your cunt, while temporarily undergoing a dry spell, no pun intended, has seen more than its share of action and variety over the years and you have learned a few tricks that would even make a water front whore blush.

Certainly no man fortunate enough to get your ankles up around his ears could say to his drunken buddies, "she was a dog, boys, but I put a flag over her face and did my duty for God and country."

Finally, you file the conversation away in the recesses of your mind to return to and play with each time you need a break during the rest of the day. Maybe, just maybe, you will play mentally with yourself tonight. After all, while it may be a poor alternative to the real thing, it is all that you are likely to have available to you tonight.

As the day draws to a close and the clock move towards 5 P.M. You find yourself no closer to the problem than you were at 8:00 A.M. this morning or the previous two mornings for that matter.

The thought of playing a game of fantasy at home alone this evening has, for some strange inexplicable reason, enabled you to concentrate on your task to a far greater degree.

As you returned to the proposition off and on during the day you reached the decision that you would follow through on all of the suggestions Richard made with one exception, that you would not unlock your door.

It is one thing to be horny and is another to be totally foolish in today's age.

You have decided that in lieu of leaving the door unlocked you will put your vibrators and hand lotion on the bedside table in case your imagination becomes so vivid that physical instruments of self satisfaction are required.

Entering your apartment you have a momentary let down. Your effects are certainly not out of House and Gardens and while you make excellent money when you work there never seems to be enough for all the nice things that you crave.

The apartment is not dirty or even messy but does show the signs of being lived in by someone who spends far too much time confined by its bare walls.

Too lazy and tired to cook, you put a frozen dinner in the microwave and pour a double scotch in an effort to take the edge off your jangled nerves.

As you sip the scotch and watch the 6 o'clock news, you process the daily litany of horror and suffering in the world. The glass is soon empty and by the time the weather report comes on you are on your third double.

Mellow is the word to describe you right now, you chuckle to yourself.

"King Dong...no Kong", you correct yourself, "could come in here and slip it to me and I wouldn't object," you snicker to yourself.

The scotch has masked your normal inhibitions while doing nothing to soothe your sexual desires.

Rousing yourself form the lethargy that has set in and the self pity which, you know, will soon follow you stumble to the bathroom and, shedding your clothes, you enter the shower while you are still capable of turning it on.

The hot water, the fragrant soap and your roaming fingers do nothing to assuage your raging hormones. Your fingers dance over your clit and up your channel but it is so mechanical and promises to bring no real satisfaction.

You eye the enema bag hanging on the back of the bathroom door, but after briefly considering it in your foggy mind you discard the thought. After all, you think, " if I don't unlock the door there is no possibility of having my cornhole reamed, therefore, why bother cleaning out my shitter."

Finally, the water starts to cool from the showerhead. A sure sign that once again you have drained the tank.

Stumbling from the shower you don a pair of panties and a loose flowing kafkan which, while colorful, goes a long way to hiding you're plus size.

The urge to sit on the throne and wallow in self-pity is almost overwhelming. The sexual frustration, the problem with the computer code, your secret private opinion of yourself and your role in the universe all compete for your attention and compete unsuccessfully because your booze clouded mind is virtually incapable of rational thought.

You go into the bedroom and take your sleeping mask from the bedside drawer where it rests among all your private little toys. Too blitzed to even realize it, you stumble into the livingroom without closing the drawer.

Every human being during the course of their indeterminate life span, makes a number of decisions which seem meaningless, mundane even, thoughtless at the time, but which in retrospect can be attributed with causing you to travel down an entirely different road with your life. Minor, inconsequential decisions, which have, major repercussions.

You make one of those momentous decisions now the import of which will only become clear in the years to come.

A stupid, inconsequential decision. Stupid and dangerous. One you would never make if you were in full command of your facilities. One you would never make if you're thinking process was not clouded by liquor and every nerve ending in your body screaming for a thick, hard cock.

Without conscious thought, without reason, without clearly thinking of the ramifications, you unsnap the dead bolt on the front door and sit on the couch, having tuned the television to TNN, and put on your sleeping mask.

In the years to come, with all the joys and sorrows this decision brings to you, you never cease to marvel at what a truly senseless act this truly was. Who, in their wildest fantasy, could ever predict the long-range consequences.

The answer is simply no one.

As many times as you reflect on it over the years to come you can never, ever remember actually, physically turning the deadbolt. You did, you know you did, because there was no one else there to do it and the consequences have been real but, as drunk and horny as you were you can never remember doing it.

Strange, oh so strange, that whole lives could revolve on such a simple inconsequential act, potentially dangerous but inconsequential in itself.