stephenL
15-04-2005, 08:17 PM
Death By Fucking ....chapter 01...
PART 1: Chemical Attractors: His Story
There can’t be such a thing as love as first sight. That’s certainly impossible, regardless of what you’ve heard. People are mistaking love for lust. I believe lust at first sight happens occasionally. I’m an eyewitness.
I talked to her long before I physically met her. The first time I talked to her on the phone I hoped her voice was reflective of her looks. I saw a movie recently where a guy got off of the phone with a woman he had never met and said that she was ‘audibly blonde’. When I talked to Deirdre on the phone I thought she was audibly fuckable. I’ve never had that happen before. I made a simple business call, asked to talk to someone who had called my office requesting me while I was out. I was returning a call, for crying out loud. I wasn’t expecting a life-altering experience with a simple phone call.
Deirdre was with a consulting firm that was supposed to tell my company how to do its business. Our company has only been in business for 55 years. Why should we know how to do our job? It was obvious we needed someone to come in to tell us what we were doing wrong. Deirdre was a consultant with Brown and Raymond Management Consultants. I was one of the liaison guys who were supposed to give BRMC the lowdown on how things worked. Then they were going to tell us what to downsize, who to downgrade, how to cut expenses and generally fuck up the atmosphere in a previously great place to work. I think I can safely say that only upper management in our firm thought kindly of BRMC.
I reluctantly returned Deirdre’s call. It was my job, after all. I was to cooperate in everyway possible with the BRMC team. The lady called me. I called her back. Simple as that. I hate those voice mail systems that a lot of companies have installed in the last decade. They are a major indicator of the decline of the quality of life in our country, generated in part by an over dependence on technology. Just because we can do it doesn’t mean it should be done. Fuck voice mail.
After dealing with “please listen carefully because our menu options have changed” and blah, blah, blah, I finally reached a real person. She answered the phone “Deirdre Martin”. I didn’t know that I was about to be hit by a truck.
Our company is located in the mid-west. We aren’t near to being a Fortune 500 company, but we are publicly traded and have over 5000 employees in three facilities, two in Ohio and one in Indiana. We’re respectable.
I’m the fair haired boy. I’m a department head, even if it is only a small department. I’m the youngest department head in the company. The next youngest department head is twenty years older than me. She’s forty-five, so that makes me twenty-five. I’m in charge of software development for our process control division. I also have a hand in some web-site development and in supporting some people in our general area who don’t have time to wait for the IT department to actually respond to their requests.
I have three arrogant little pricks working for me as software developers. They’re all teenagers, right out of high school. Some jerk-off in Human Resources heard that in today’s market you either farm your software development out to India or Israel or some such shit, or hire little dorkfaced numbnuts who are so young they don’t cost any money. They also have no experience other than playing around with other dorkfaced little numbnuts. And guess what? They don’t know how to follow through. They get 90% through a project and they get bored. They keep giving me buggy programs and don’t understand why I’m upset with them. I end up finishing up the programming myself, or the damn shit just wouldn’t work. Yes, I learned how to do all this shit when I was a kid, but at least I was never a dorkfaced numbnut.
I have my own axe to grind. I’ll admit it. These BRMC guys are coming in here to tell us how to do business, but I already know what it’s going to take. We’ve got to get a real internet presence and start conducting eBusiness. We are in the Stone Age in computing terms. We have a “calling card” kind of internet presence. We don’t have our customers on-line for purchasing and delivery info. We don’t try to sell our products on the net. We could be targeting new markets. We could be moving into the 21st Century. Instead we’re using the tried and true same old method of doing business, while everyone else is trying something new. Eventually we will be shit out of luck. At least that’s my opinion.
So I’m one of the guys who are dealing with BRMC. I have nothing else on my plate except trying to clean up half a dozen almost completed projects that will not go live till I have debugged them and given them a professional look. These kids wouldn’t know a professional look if it came up and bit them on the ass.
Deirdre Martin has the kind of voice that turns my knees to putty. She speaks with a Southern drawl, but she certainly has been influenced by her time in the North, because it’s not as strong an accent as I’ve heard from other people from Georgia. I asked where she was from when I first heard her speak. It was a natural question. I guess she gets it all the time, being a transplanted Southerner. She’s been in Ohio for three or four years working for BRMC, doing her business consulting thing.
Her voice was magic. It’s a kind of little girl’s voice, soft and charming. There was laughter in it, and sultry sexiness. My secretary walked into my office while I was on the phone with Ms. Martin. She stood waiting for me to finish. When I hung up, I just shook my head and said “Wow! That woman is audibly fuckable. She has the greatest voice I’ve ever heard. What a Southern accent! Maybe this assignment won’t be as bad as I had thought.”
My secretary, a very nice but rather dumpy 48 year old mother of four shook her head at my language. “Drew, please don’t use language like that unless you plan to back it up. Besides, she’s probably an elderly black lady.”
“Thanks, Carol, for bursting my bubble. Well I’ll see it when I believe it. Or vice versa. This woman is going to be a goddess. In a just universe, a voice like that would have to be attached to a heavenly body. Please, universe. Be just!”
Over the course of a week or two, Deirdre and I exchanged emails, faxes, databases, spreadsheets, all the paraphernalia that are the hallmark of the modern business world. I even slipped in some of my own ideas about developing an internet presence designed to keep us current with standard business practices. I figured it wouldn’t hurt.
We became friendly over the phone. She had a great voice, but I never forgot that her voice belonged to a potential enemy. Maybe a potential ally, too, and you can never have too many allies, especially ones who are going to have a major say in how your company is going to be run. It was a sticky political situation. I was in a position to push my own agenda if I were able to catch Deirdre’s ear. Sure, I would benefit from that, but I really believe that it’s a good course for the company to follow.
We did all of this preliminary legwork, but the real work was to begin when Deirdre spent two to three weeks at our plant to learn first hand how things worked and what our methods and problems are. I was to spend two to three weeks in a room with Deirdre. The thought occurred to me that this could be heaven or this could be hell. What if she doesn’t look like her voice? Well, I could live with that. That’s only my wishful thinking at work. I really had no reason to believe that my relationship with Deirdre Martin was going to be anything but professional. She might be able to help me professionally. She might be able to emasculate me professionally. She wielded power over me. That was an uncomfortable thought.
It was a Monday morning. I was a few minutes late (a tractor trailer flipped over while making an exit off of the interstate and everything was a mess – that was the story I planned to tell). When I got in Carol told me that Deirdre was in the conference room waiting for me. I took a deep breath and marched to my potential fate.
Deirdre was sitting at the conference table when I entered, and rose to greet me. I was stunned. She had stolen Joanne Woodward’s face: the young Joanne Woodward, the Joanne Woodward of “The Long Hot Summer”. Her hair was short with curls: blonde. Of course she was blonde. She wore a business suit that concealed her body effectively except that she was obviously slim with curves, but I didn’t care about her body. I couldn’t see her body. All I could see were her eyes. She had these blue-green eyes: round, innocent eyes; eyes that beckoned, invited, questioned. But there was more. She smiled and reached out to shake my hand. Her eyes lit up as if she had turned on a switch. I was mesmerized! She was enchanting and I was enchanted. And then it happened.
Our hands touched. She shook my hand in a friendly business-like greeting, but I was suffering from sensory overload.
I need to interject a crackpot theory I’ve been working on. It’s a theory I developed because my most sacredly held beliefs are now being challenged, and I need something to meet that challenge head-on or I may see the total destruction of my belief system.
It’s a chemistry thing. That’s what it is. It must be. Chemistry and physics, too. Electricity comes in there somewhere. Our hands touched and it was like I had come home. A simple hand shake, but every point of contact seemed to be an energy source. Her skin is like velvet: soft, very soft, smooth and tanned: velvety. Something in her skins cells, some chemical, some DNA thing, some hormone or whatever, attracts like-minded somethings in my skin cells.
PART 1: Chemical Attractors: His Story
There can’t be such a thing as love as first sight. That’s certainly impossible, regardless of what you’ve heard. People are mistaking love for lust. I believe lust at first sight happens occasionally. I’m an eyewitness.
I talked to her long before I physically met her. The first time I talked to her on the phone I hoped her voice was reflective of her looks. I saw a movie recently where a guy got off of the phone with a woman he had never met and said that she was ‘audibly blonde’. When I talked to Deirdre on the phone I thought she was audibly fuckable. I’ve never had that happen before. I made a simple business call, asked to talk to someone who had called my office requesting me while I was out. I was returning a call, for crying out loud. I wasn’t expecting a life-altering experience with a simple phone call.
Deirdre was with a consulting firm that was supposed to tell my company how to do its business. Our company has only been in business for 55 years. Why should we know how to do our job? It was obvious we needed someone to come in to tell us what we were doing wrong. Deirdre was a consultant with Brown and Raymond Management Consultants. I was one of the liaison guys who were supposed to give BRMC the lowdown on how things worked. Then they were going to tell us what to downsize, who to downgrade, how to cut expenses and generally fuck up the atmosphere in a previously great place to work. I think I can safely say that only upper management in our firm thought kindly of BRMC.
I reluctantly returned Deirdre’s call. It was my job, after all. I was to cooperate in everyway possible with the BRMC team. The lady called me. I called her back. Simple as that. I hate those voice mail systems that a lot of companies have installed in the last decade. They are a major indicator of the decline of the quality of life in our country, generated in part by an over dependence on technology. Just because we can do it doesn’t mean it should be done. Fuck voice mail.
After dealing with “please listen carefully because our menu options have changed” and blah, blah, blah, I finally reached a real person. She answered the phone “Deirdre Martin”. I didn’t know that I was about to be hit by a truck.
Our company is located in the mid-west. We aren’t near to being a Fortune 500 company, but we are publicly traded and have over 5000 employees in three facilities, two in Ohio and one in Indiana. We’re respectable.
I’m the fair haired boy. I’m a department head, even if it is only a small department. I’m the youngest department head in the company. The next youngest department head is twenty years older than me. She’s forty-five, so that makes me twenty-five. I’m in charge of software development for our process control division. I also have a hand in some web-site development and in supporting some people in our general area who don’t have time to wait for the IT department to actually respond to their requests.
I have three arrogant little pricks working for me as software developers. They’re all teenagers, right out of high school. Some jerk-off in Human Resources heard that in today’s market you either farm your software development out to India or Israel or some such shit, or hire little dorkfaced numbnuts who are so young they don’t cost any money. They also have no experience other than playing around with other dorkfaced little numbnuts. And guess what? They don’t know how to follow through. They get 90% through a project and they get bored. They keep giving me buggy programs and don’t understand why I’m upset with them. I end up finishing up the programming myself, or the damn shit just wouldn’t work. Yes, I learned how to do all this shit when I was a kid, but at least I was never a dorkfaced numbnut.
I have my own axe to grind. I’ll admit it. These BRMC guys are coming in here to tell us how to do business, but I already know what it’s going to take. We’ve got to get a real internet presence and start conducting eBusiness. We are in the Stone Age in computing terms. We have a “calling card” kind of internet presence. We don’t have our customers on-line for purchasing and delivery info. We don’t try to sell our products on the net. We could be targeting new markets. We could be moving into the 21st Century. Instead we’re using the tried and true same old method of doing business, while everyone else is trying something new. Eventually we will be shit out of luck. At least that’s my opinion.
So I’m one of the guys who are dealing with BRMC. I have nothing else on my plate except trying to clean up half a dozen almost completed projects that will not go live till I have debugged them and given them a professional look. These kids wouldn’t know a professional look if it came up and bit them on the ass.
Deirdre Martin has the kind of voice that turns my knees to putty. She speaks with a Southern drawl, but she certainly has been influenced by her time in the North, because it’s not as strong an accent as I’ve heard from other people from Georgia. I asked where she was from when I first heard her speak. It was a natural question. I guess she gets it all the time, being a transplanted Southerner. She’s been in Ohio for three or four years working for BRMC, doing her business consulting thing.
Her voice was magic. It’s a kind of little girl’s voice, soft and charming. There was laughter in it, and sultry sexiness. My secretary walked into my office while I was on the phone with Ms. Martin. She stood waiting for me to finish. When I hung up, I just shook my head and said “Wow! That woman is audibly fuckable. She has the greatest voice I’ve ever heard. What a Southern accent! Maybe this assignment won’t be as bad as I had thought.”
My secretary, a very nice but rather dumpy 48 year old mother of four shook her head at my language. “Drew, please don’t use language like that unless you plan to back it up. Besides, she’s probably an elderly black lady.”
“Thanks, Carol, for bursting my bubble. Well I’ll see it when I believe it. Or vice versa. This woman is going to be a goddess. In a just universe, a voice like that would have to be attached to a heavenly body. Please, universe. Be just!”
Over the course of a week or two, Deirdre and I exchanged emails, faxes, databases, spreadsheets, all the paraphernalia that are the hallmark of the modern business world. I even slipped in some of my own ideas about developing an internet presence designed to keep us current with standard business practices. I figured it wouldn’t hurt.
We became friendly over the phone. She had a great voice, but I never forgot that her voice belonged to a potential enemy. Maybe a potential ally, too, and you can never have too many allies, especially ones who are going to have a major say in how your company is going to be run. It was a sticky political situation. I was in a position to push my own agenda if I were able to catch Deirdre’s ear. Sure, I would benefit from that, but I really believe that it’s a good course for the company to follow.
We did all of this preliminary legwork, but the real work was to begin when Deirdre spent two to three weeks at our plant to learn first hand how things worked and what our methods and problems are. I was to spend two to three weeks in a room with Deirdre. The thought occurred to me that this could be heaven or this could be hell. What if she doesn’t look like her voice? Well, I could live with that. That’s only my wishful thinking at work. I really had no reason to believe that my relationship with Deirdre Martin was going to be anything but professional. She might be able to help me professionally. She might be able to emasculate me professionally. She wielded power over me. That was an uncomfortable thought.
It was a Monday morning. I was a few minutes late (a tractor trailer flipped over while making an exit off of the interstate and everything was a mess – that was the story I planned to tell). When I got in Carol told me that Deirdre was in the conference room waiting for me. I took a deep breath and marched to my potential fate.
Deirdre was sitting at the conference table when I entered, and rose to greet me. I was stunned. She had stolen Joanne Woodward’s face: the young Joanne Woodward, the Joanne Woodward of “The Long Hot Summer”. Her hair was short with curls: blonde. Of course she was blonde. She wore a business suit that concealed her body effectively except that she was obviously slim with curves, but I didn’t care about her body. I couldn’t see her body. All I could see were her eyes. She had these blue-green eyes: round, innocent eyes; eyes that beckoned, invited, questioned. But there was more. She smiled and reached out to shake my hand. Her eyes lit up as if she had turned on a switch. I was mesmerized! She was enchanting and I was enchanted. And then it happened.
Our hands touched. She shook my hand in a friendly business-like greeting, but I was suffering from sensory overload.
I need to interject a crackpot theory I’ve been working on. It’s a theory I developed because my most sacredly held beliefs are now being challenged, and I need something to meet that challenge head-on or I may see the total destruction of my belief system.
It’s a chemistry thing. That’s what it is. It must be. Chemistry and physics, too. Electricity comes in there somewhere. Our hands touched and it was like I had come home. A simple hand shake, but every point of contact seemed to be an energy source. Her skin is like velvet: soft, very soft, smooth and tanned: velvety. Something in her skins cells, some chemical, some DNA thing, some hormone or whatever, attracts like-minded somethings in my skin cells.