The Switch Ch. 04

The quickest way to develop a hatred of humanity was to work in sales. No matter how much you liked people at the beginning, within a week, resentment crept in, and after a month, you wanted to run away to an uninhabited planet.

He used to think working as an apprentice chef was thankless work. It was hot, it was busy, and the hours were long. People complained; they had to wait too long, their beans were overcooked, the dish that they'd requested by altered to suit their taste didn't actually have any taste. Furthermore, senior chefs were inclined to be grumpy pricks, and he'd been blasted more than once for something that was entirely beyond his control.

On the other hand, at least people generally enjoyed eating out. They'd stick their head in the kitchen to thank the chef, or just pass along their appreciation via the wait staff. He also got a free dinner at most of the places he'd worked at, and it made a nice change from the Eastern European fare he received at home.

The best place he worked at offered fantastically cheap cocktails on Thursday nights. This led to women drinking a lot, and, in turn, Val getting offered a lot of sex. He was twenty years old and happy to screw anyone who offered up their pussy.

It all ended when some stupid woman accused him of stealing her purse after they'd had sex. He hadn't, of course, and fuck knows what she'd done with her purse, but it pissed him off, and he quit in a huff. He told the boss he was sick of the hours and the low pay and, in a way, this was true, but it was more hurt pride.

His parents were angry, and after a month, his father found a job for him in Emerald. It was the midst of the mining boom and rather than do the sensible thing and earn a shitload of cash working in a mine, he instead found himself selling heavy machinery.

His job was at a machinery salesyard that catered primarily to miners, but also picked up a decent amount of money selling farming equipment. The managers wanted someone who would deal with what they saw as bothersome tight-arses - farmers - while they sold to the big boys, the mining folks with deep pockets. Val was so wet behind the ears that he couldn't recognise one type of machinery from another, but that didn't earn him any sympathy. He was given a month to prove his worth.

It sucked, but pride prevented him from entertaining the idea of failure. He learned the differences between Mahendra and John Deere machinery. He got the appropriate tickets and licenses, so he could actually demonstrate tractors and combine harvesters. He treated everyone like a big shot. In short, he did so well at his new job that the boss decided the job must be a cinch, and would therefore be the perfect for his completely useless middle son. Val got the boot, moved back to Toowoomba, and started selling earthmoving equipment.

Fifteen years later, he knew he was going to be doing this until he died. It was a horrifying thought. Another thirty years of bargaining, arguing, smiling and fighting with a client to see how badly they could each screw each over.

He'd tried to enter a new industry, but no one had been willing to take him on. Most employers didn't understand why he would want to leave a career he was actually quite successful at. People responded to Val. In a world full of shiny, preened salespeople, he was a real man. He could make conversation. He could lead people to believe he genuinely cared. He had no issues taking big clients out to strip clubs and letting them drink themselves under the table.

Also working against him was his depression. When it hit - and it was hitting now - he would fail to show up for work for days at a time. He wouldn't answer calls. He wouldn't do anything but lay on the couch, get stoned, and wish he was dead.

He couldn't go to work today. He just couldn't. Everything seemed so hard and pointless. He'd thought the weekend with Aimee had gone well. Certainly, she'd seemed happy enough. She'd even lined up another date for the coming weekend. But last night, Thursday night, she'd pulled out, using the excuse that her son was having a bad week and she wanted to spend some time with him.

Val may not have ever lived with his daughter, but it seemed implausible. It was undoubtedly nothing more than a polite 'fuck off, I'm found someone better' text. Rejection always cut deep, more so when the rejection was of him as a person, and he actually liked the person who was rejecting him.

Not one of his partners had ever loved him. It was a fact that he was acutely aware of, and one he found particularly disturbing. He stood in the kitchen and stared at two of his cats as they played a game of rough and tumble together. They left a trail of fur behind them. The weather was warming up and they were shedding their winter coats.

Was this what was wrong with him? The cats? Samara had certainly been quick to remove that from his dating profile. She'd also removed any references to his nationality, his religion, and the fact that he was seeking a wife. He wanted to find someone to love, get married and have a kid. Who would have thought it would be so fucking hard?

His work phone rang. He glanced at it, and immediately recognised the number. It was his boss, probably wanting to bitch to him about the other sales staff.

'Hey mate,' Val said, answering the phone with the swipe of a finger, and putting Gavin on loudspeaker.

'Val, you would not fucking believe who I just ran into. Fucking Linda Camberwell! Mate, that bird is still looking fucking good these days. I'd give that meat sandwich of hers a good pounding...'

Val rolled his eyes and switched on the kettle while his employer launched into a diatribe about all the sexual antics he'd like to engage in with Linda. He opened a jar of Nescafe and tipped two teaspoons of coffee into a mug. The kettle boiled. Gavin continued to talk about Linda's tits while Valery stirred.

'...better than to cream pie that bitch. Anyway, the reason I was calling,' Gavin said, finally getting to the crux of the matter. 'Fucking Steve was supposed to go to the goddamn show today, but the muppet rang me half an hour ago claiming his wife's in labour. Well, fuck that, I said, it's the first kid, just take her to hospital and go by tonight. She'll still be going, and if she isn't, well, fuck that, who needs to see that shit show of blood and gore?'

Val poured milk into his coffee. 'So what you're saying is that you need me to go to the show and take his place?'

'Yeah mate, that'd be ace.'

Val sighed. He didn't want to go to the office, let alone to a conference. Fucking Steven. 'Sure,' he agreed reluctantly. 'Send me the details. I'll be there in half an hour.'

The score was depression = 0, Gavin = 1. Val finished his coffee, read the instructions Gavin had sent through, and changed into a newer, less faded, work uniform, before heading off.

Val had learned that the key to surviving conferences was to network during the day, and drink heavily during the social functions.

He was sticking to this plan when, at the post convention drinks, he came face to face with Linda. Fuck. What was she doing here? Maybe that's what Gavin had mentioned her for this morning - to give him the heads up that she'd be dropping by. He probably should have paid more attention to his boss's sexist ramblings.

Linda smiled sweetly and asked him how he was doing.

'Fine,' he replied shortly.

Val had met Linda when he was twenty-seven and she was forty-two. They'd met at a meet-up for people with sexual interests left of centre. Word had it that she was a bit of a cougar, and word was correct.

She'd taken him home that night and fucked him senseless. She must have liked him, because she called him up the following week, and suggested he invite her to dinner. She even told him where she wanted to go.

It was just a bad coincidence that Linda worked for a chemical company in an executive role, and he worked for machinery one in a sales one. Both of them made regular appearances at farming conventions and the like. Their professional lives couldn't help but converge. In fact, she'd later admitted she'd recognised him from a conference they'd both attended, and that was what had initially led her to bed him. She'd wanted to know what his kinks were.

There was no hiding what was going on between them, either in their own private group, or in their work lives. The industry watched in interest as the two first dated, then cohabited. He moved to Sydney for her, and when she took on a new role at a new company, they headed back to Brisbane. His career suffered. Hers flourished.

She had three stepdaughters, who were ten, twelve and fifteen at the start of their relationship. She was insanely jealous of them, and convinced that one or all three of them were plotting to seduce Val at any one time. She was similarly convinced that Val was a sexual predator at heart, and waiting for the moment to take advantage of her girls. The fights had been incredible.

In the end, she dumped him four months short of their five year anniversary. They'd survived a two year attempt to have a child together, a miscarriage, Linda's fondness of the white powder, and three girls' foray through puberty. In the end, it was a sixty year old CEO of a minor bank that had come between them. Linda no longer liked them younger.

Val had fought the separation at first. He'd bought flowers. He'd cried. He'd begged. Eventually, he stopped floundering, and started to move on. He grew some balls and realised that the way she'd treated him was actually pretty shit. Anything he'd wanted had been secondary to what she desired, and more than once she'd blatantly ignored his hard limits, putting him in positions he never wanted to be in again.

'I hear that little Domme you were with has found herself a wealthy farmer,' Linda remarked, sipping her wine.

At the conclusion of their relationship, Linda had set about doing her best to ruin his reputation both personally and professionally. On a professional level, she'd thankfully failed, but she'd done a good chunk of damage on a personal one. Friendships he'd once relied on dissipated, and he'd been forced out of the social groups they'd both belonged to.

The loneliness had all but crushed him. As a last ditch effort to maintain some sort of social life, he showed up to another group's dinner. There, he'd met Samara and her friends. Both he and Samara had been single, and they'd thrown caution to the window and played together. They got on well as friends, and everyone always said they looked good together, so it seemed natural to form a relationship.

Linda hated Samara. The women knew each other from way back, and Linda was openly scathing of the younger woman. And, because Linda was someone who understood the importance of knowing what was going on in all circles at all times, she'd paid attention to the commencement, and later failure, of Samara and Val's relationship. It didn't even slightly surprise Valery that Linda knew Samara had re-partnered.

'Yeah, Kyle,' Val agreed. 'He's a nice guy.'

'And you? Have you moved on?'

Val hesitated. He looked around for someone else to drag into the conversation. He'd rather not discuss his love life, or lack thereof, with Linda.

Linda accurately analysed his reluctance and smiled sweetly. 'There's still time,' she said condescendingly. 'Sooner or later, you'll find someone willing to settle.'

He sighed. 'Whatever. How are the girls?'

'They all have boyfriends. You're out of luck, if that's what you're thinking.'

That was enough for him. He gestured to her he was going, turned around, and walked towards the bar. He dumped his empty glass on the bar, and went to leave.

Fuck Linda. Helping her raise her daughters had monumentally screwed with his mind. One week she'd be accusing him of not doing enough for them, and the next, when he tried to get involved, she'd accuse him of perving on them. Anything and everything he did became twisted, and used against him.

Worse still, he'd really grown to love her kids. When Linda wasn't around to critique his actions, he'd enjoyed being around them. It had killed him that he'd lost contact with them with she broke up with him. She didn't want him around them, and he, as an ex-partner with no biological ties to them, had no right to demand access.

He should have stayed in bed. Really, if ever there was a day he should have given in to depression, today was it. He wondered if he was right to drive home. How much had he had to drink? Two heavies in forty minutes? Goddamn it, he was either going to have to taxi it, or stop and have something to eat.

Val found a pub and ordered dinner. While he was waiting, Gavin called to find out how the day had gone. After a long, expletive filled discussion, Gavin decided that he'd come down and join Val for a meal and drinks. Val wished he wouldn't, but there was no arguing with the boss.

The evening went downhill from there. Instead of sticking with Cokes, letting his blood alcohol content return to something passable, and driving home, Val ended up drinking with Gavin, and several clients who'd also decided to delay the trip home from the conference.

Val could drink with the best of them. When he was trying to stay sober, his boss always saw it as a personal challenge to get him as pissed as possible, but tonight was a night where he was willing to give in and drink himself under the table. Life was crap. Why bother trying? The moment you did, something would just come up and knock you off your feet, anyway.

By the time he was dumped outside his house in a taxi, he was in an abysmal state. He knew it, and the taxi driver had known it.

It took him four attempts to unlock his door and get inside. When he finally succeeded, he was hit with the overwhelming smell of cat shit. One of the felines responsible for the offending mess howled, ran outside, and disappeared into the night.

'Fuck you, you stupid animals,' Val yelled.

He made it to the kitchen, where he proceeded to throw up in the sink. It was then that it occurred to him that he hadn't responded to Aimee's text calling off tonight's date.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Lower grade cricket attracted a motley assembly of men; teenage boys who'd moved past junior cricket, older men who'd sunk back from the higher grades, family men who wanted to get away from their kids for a few hours, and single men who needed something to occupy their weekends.

Val fell into the final group. He could bowl decently, and he wasn't an embarrassment in the field, but he couldn't bat to save his life. He was the fourth grade team's number ten batsman, and he had no aspirations to climb any higher, particularly on a day like today, when the sun was hot and he was hungover. His team was batting first, but with any luck, he wouldn't be called in to have a crack at connecting bat and ball.

'You look like shit,' Oliver remarked helpfully.

Oliver was the number three batsman. He was, far and away, the best cricketer in the team, and he should have been playing at least second grade, but his varying rosters meant that he couldn't be relied upon to participate every week. As a result, he was shunted into what he called 'no man's land'.

'Big night, last night. I woke up to a kitchen sink full of vomit and six hungry cats,' Val admitted. 'Okay, five hungry cats. Mister Jim was eating out of sink.'

Oliver laughed. 'Mister Jim. I love your cat's names, Val. Nothing says 'straight' like half a dozen cats with stupid names.'

'I didn't name him,' Val argued.

'No, you just feed him the contents of your stomach after a big night out.'

Val took a mouthful of Powerade. His stomach churned, and he went over to the grass and spat it out. He didn't always suffer from hangovers, but when he did, they were epic.

'Are you sure you should be here?' Oliver inquired.

Val waved away his concern. 'Better here than at home. I smoked a...' he paused, remembering Oliver was a cop. '...I took something for my nausea at home, and am sure I'll be fine,' he finished.

Olly shook his head disapprovingly. 'What was the go with the woman Samara wanted you to hook up with?'

'Aimee.' Val winced. 'We met up for lunch and ended up back at my house. I invited her over for dinner last weekend and it all seemed to go well. I invited her out again, and we were going to go out last night, but she called it off. She made up this bullshit excuse about her son having a bad week, and needing to stay home. I texted her last night, when I got home. I'm not actually sure what I wrote, but I have the gut feeling it's bad.'

'You haven't checked to see what you sent?' another of their teammate's, Shane, chimed in.

'No fucking way,' Val replied, leaning his head against the cinderblock wall of the clubhouse. 'The problem is that she's responded. I saw the message come in, but I'm too scared to read it.'

'Just read it,' Oliver ordered. 'You'll need to apologise.'

'Yeah, read it,' Shane agreed. 'If we laugh at you, we'll feel better about ourselves.'

'You don't need to read my drunken texts to do that. I woke up with no pants on and a cat eating my vomit.'

Shane and Oliver looked at him expectantly. Val sighed and reached for his personal phone. A cold feeling of dread settled in his stomach, which clashed horribly with the post-drunken nausea the weed hadn't managed to dispatch.

He was an idiot. A bona fide idiot. There was no using depression as an excuse; he was naturally just a fucking twit when it came to women. He flicked through his phone and realised he'd sent not one, but four, separate messages in rapid fire

You dont nede to make exusses

god luck wiht findng smnone

rmember, do't be shy abut getting naked

p.s. sry for cumming o ur tits. it ws rude

Oliver snorted with laughter. Shane wasn't so subtle; he pissed himself.

Val sighed. It could have been worse. It could have been better, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. He scrolled down to read her response. Oh crap. Her message read 'Are you free next Saturday?' and came with a very graphic photo of her without a top on. He really shouldn't have opened his messages with two men looking on.

'Nice tits,' Shane commented.

Val locked the screen and shoved the phone in his kit bag. Well, that was unexpected. Did she actually like him? Had her excuse been genuine? He chewed his lip and stared thoughtfully at the field.

'I'd fucking kill for a woman to send me nude pictures and let me cum on her chest,' Shane remarked.

'I'd kill for my wife to be interested in spending time with me,' Oliver sighed. 'I get sex but no conversation.'

A cry went up in the field, and they all turned their attention to the oval. The umpire's finger rose and the batsman walked. Oliver readjusted his pads and headed out to take the outgoing man's place.

When he was out of earshot, Shane said 'He's the biggest fucking wanker I've come across. If I was his wife, I wouldn't want to talk to him either.'

'It's not his fault. He's a cop.'

'No, he's a cop because he's a fucking wanker. Can't be one without the other.'

A lot of people seemed to dislike Oliver. Valery didn't understand. He liked Olly. Sure, he could be a bit condescending at times, but he was a Dom. That was how they were.

'I better not have to bat today,' Val groaned, as a fresh wave of nausea hit.

Shane peered out at the field. 'You might want to prepare for the worst. It looks like we're outclassed.'

'I might just go and stick my fingers down my throat. Get the last of it up.'

'Bullshit. You just want to go to the change room and take another look at your girlfriend's tits.'

~~~~~~~~~

Aimee was still in two minds as to whether a third date was a good idea. She liked Val. He was a nice guy. He was extremely attractive, and he had been true to his word and taking down his online profile.