A shot of Romance

ONE

Double Orgasm

When I make a cocktail, it must be perfect. Just one wrong ingredient ruins the whole thing. The wrong spirit. A missing garnish. Chipped glass. Too much ice. Easily fixed? Just start right over. If the correct flavours are on hand, you can mix them again and enjoy. But not everything works that way. Some things, some experiences, do not get a do-over. These canon events leave a lasting scar, unrepairable, leaving you changed forever.

What happened to me today is, without a doubt, a bad mix. Like when a taste so bad contorts your expression into something so tragic that strangers comment, ‘cheer up love, no one died’. It annoys me when people say that. Sometimes I’m tempted to say ‘yes they have’, just to see the look on their face. But not today, although it comes in a close second on the enshittification scale.

The day started well—the best, with all the flavours in the right order. For starters, I made it to work on time, which is a huge win, as that almost always never happens. I should get an accolade, even though the credit belongs to another. My boyfriend, Hugo, is the spirit to my mixer, mixing things up when life gets boring. Today, in a rather unprecedented move, he pushed me out of bed when it was time for work.

Yes, I feel a little rejected. But it is not a disaster. A light splash of responsibility creates a big impact. We are now in a serious relationship, heading for the ultimate flavour pairing: marriage.

Things get better when I walk through the door and am personally greeted by the head of human resources, inviting me for a chat.

I’m going to get promoted. Nerves take over, and I’m either going to be sick with excitement or wet myself. This is the moment I have been waiting for. All my hard work has paid off. Finally, something good is happening.

“Kat James. I find you guilty of gross misconduct, unbefitting an employee here at Artisanal Delight.” Dextra Dominica, small head, large hair, long nailed monocratic bitch, delivers the news with sour notes.

This seems unfair.

Dextra Dominica teases the ends of her elbow-length curls before smoothing the ruffles on her red bodycon dress.

“Gross Misconduct?” My voice is diluted by a click clicking on the mouse that wakes the wall-to-wall video screen.

I am a model employee, on paper anyway. Uma clocks in for me, so my tardiness goes undetected. Never late and always willing to please, she is the modifier to my professional life. We had an agreement. Uma would never betray me.

But human resources found out somehow.

It can’t be the security cameras. I always stay off the radar when sneaking in. Regardless, the quality of recordings will be substandard. I’ve been in the security office, and the monitors resemble water added to ouzo, snowy pixels of a system installed about a hundred years ago.

But I am looking at images. Lots of images. Images of me. Clear. High definition. In colour. The only thing missing from the photo montage of my ‘best bits’ is music. An Artisanal Delight reality show where I, the evictee, watch career highs and lows. Pictures of me enjoying my role as Entertainment Executive. Here’s one of me downing a few cheeky shots ‘paid for’ by clients. Another depicts me clearing up, tucking a half-empty bottle of Anejo Tequila in the back of my trousers. To keep my hands free, of course. Technically, it’s not stealing as I had charged it to a client who drank what they wanted before leaving. It’s not theft; it’s gifting, which Dextra Dominica reminds me is not actually a thing.

Frame follows frame until we reach the finale, filmed late last night in the private members’ lounge. Sultry lighting from chrome ceiling chandeliers provides just enough illumination to make out two persons entering the room via the staff entrance.

The video cuts to the deep-seated velvet Chesterfield sofa. Handmade and newly installed, I selected it myself from the company catalogue. It was above budget, but the ochre shade complements the nubuck eco-leather of the industrial armchairs. The acts of last night would have been impossible if not for the Chesterfield. Hugo bends me backwards over the low rolled back and I hook my fingers into the plunging recesses. My head on the seat, the luxurious velvet caresses my cheek as he lifts my left leg over and I straddle the firm, curved back. Hands brush up my leg, fingers tease to the thigh-length slit in my black midaxi dress. The sweetheart neckline reveals a hint of cleavage.

Wait, Dextra may have a point. This does look bad. My twelve-hole platform boots graze the fabric. That is going to mark. I should have asked him to remove them as I’d been on shooter duty when Hugo pulled me from the dance pit with promises to give me a Double Orgasm. A Double Orgasm is messy and ignores the restraints of a cocktail shaker and glassware. Hugo slides crushed ice over my body, then pours the Amaretto, Irish cream liqueur and Kahlua straight into my mouth, at the same time as giving me an actual orgasm. If your mind is boggled, you are halfway to appreciating Hugo’s talents.

Dextra Dominica pauses the movie, Hugo frozen at the point of sliding my knickers midway down my thigh. The familiar curve to the edge of his mouth, eyes looking into the lens of the camera.

Eyes.

Looking.

Into.

The.

Lens.

Of.

The.

Camera.

But there are no video cameras on that wall. Only the new art deco framed mirror was fitted last week. It must have a hidden camera. The room is nothing more than a honeypot. I’m such a fool.

Although my face is masked, it is quite clearly me. The parting in my dress reveals my tattoo, a floral tribute running from hip to mid-thigh. The same thigh is currently visible through the slashes in my washed black jeans. Dextra taps the glass table, her Curacao blue acrylics follow my tattoo as I cross my legs, my hands add an extra shield, but it’s too late.

This is revenge porn at its finest, only it’s not Hugo’s fault. Dextra is the one to blame, watching enough to rule it unacceptable. Or watching it all, including when Hugo followed the path of the flowers up my thigh, tasting the sweetest bloom at the top. Jealous at viewing the pleasure he delivered using only his tongue, wishing someone, anyone, would eat her out and give her a double orgasm. If anything, it’s her behaviour that’s inappropriate.

“As of this moment, you are no longer an employee of Artisanal Delight.”

This is a mistake.

“Please submit your pass and collect your things from your locker on your way out.”

So that is what gross misconduct means.

I am fired.

Pressure builds in my throat, tongue paralysed. Chest heavy, I pull at my jacket, but the compression grows, inversely proportional to my efforts. Something slams into my ribcage, the air sucked out. Breath shallow, worthless, every drop drained from the bottle.

Small head, large hair, long nails, tap, tap, taps the table, pace quickening. I close my eyes. This has happened before.

Break, twist, tumble, then shattered glass. Trapped. Helpless.

Darling, these three steps will help. Your body will automatically know what to do with practice.

The meditation, I cannot remember. I am no good at this. Did not practice enough.

Something about feeling the emotion. But this is a problem for me right now as emotion equals crying, and I am not about to blub in front of human resources. Any sign of weakness and they win. Stay strong and show resolve.

Hands caress my face, offering comfort. Dextra Dominica’s? No. Mine. A grounding essence of compassion. My palms press into the table, fingers spread so each knuckle makes contact. Feet flat on the floor. Stability. That was step one. I remembered. I have done well.

Next, observe my surroundings. I am in the boardroom, a three-meter square out-of-the-box cube. The antithesis of bespoke craftsmanship. Sterile papered wall panels joined with plastic strips, monotone grey carpet squares, oval glass table set on steel arches. Four charcoal fabric chairs of hessian quality, rough to the touch. All ugly. No help here.

Visible through the table are Dextra Dominica’s shoes. Animal print pony skin toe cap set into a chunky one-and-a-half-inch black heel, which supports a sturdy ankle strap. Pretty. The orange tipping on the toe panel mismatches her dress. The curve of her calves, red hem kissing her knees. Perched on the chair, back poker straight, narrow waistline, gentle curves up to shoulders.

Don’t rush. I got this.

“Your pass.” Dextra Dominica holds out her hand, elbows resting on the glass, talons lengthen to snatch the lanyard off my neck. Head nods in encouragement. She is enjoying this.

Meditation interrupted, I stand on shaky legs. My palms press so hard on the table that my knuckles whiten. As I release my hands, I stumble back. Part from shock and part to clear her field of reach. The badge knocks against my shoe as the cord falls to the ground and rests against my black lace ankle boots.

“Shit.” My heel slips as I stoop to gather up the ribbon. A sharp tug and OUCH! The split ring hooks into my shoe, tearing my skin and drawing blood.

Dextra Dominica sighs. I am taking too long. 

I toss the pass onto the table and grab my bag, which catches the leg of the chair. I just want to leave, but the components are all wrong. Dextra, the sour faced bitch, prolongs the agony.

“Wait.”

She’s changed her mind. It’s all a big candid camera moment, and Hugo is in on it. Last night was a scene in an elaborate plan, and any moment he will walk through the door with a ring and a proposal. I turn to look, but nothing.

“As your apartment is leased to you by Artisanal Delight by nature of you being an employee, your contact also terminates at midnight. An agent is waiting at the property to oversee the close down of your tenancy.” Dominica pauses, expecting me to have something to say. “Sign this before you go.” She waves a document.

“What is it?”

“Formalities. Sign by the ‘X’ to confirm you accept the cost of the cleaning bill for the private members’ lounge. Artisanal Delight’s clients expect the highest standards and your little stunt necessitates an extra deep cleanse.”

Dextra Dominica does have a point. Hugo’s double orgasm was messy to the highest high, he insisted on a freestyle pour, despite my plea to use precise measurements. In my upturned position, half landed in my nose, the rest spluttered over the Chesterfield as I choked on the steady stream.

The top left corner of the paper tears as I extract it from her grip, removing the ‘Artis’ from ‘Artisanal Delight’. The company strapline stays intact: ‘Experience the finest pleasure’. If only she knew. Oh wait, she saw the video. She knows.

So, I’m out of a job. Unemployed. Unemployable? A failure. I take one last glance at the screen before I escape. No, not a complete failure. There is talent in performing those acts so masterfully. Hugo prides himself on proficiency, each time modified to keep the passion alive. What if? Yes. He would love to see a semi-professional reportage-style erotic movie of us doing what we do best. Hugo often begs to record our passion, and this fulfils his desires. Legally, I’m entitled to see the personal data Artisanal Delight keeps on me. And it doesn’t get more personal than this. It may help to divert his frustrations at being evicted.

“Can you pop a copy of the footage onto a USB for me? I have one in my bag.”

Dextra Dominica’s eyes fix on her laptop, tap, tap, tap on the keyboard. “Just get out.”

“Only it’s just, under the rules of GDPR. I think I’m entitled–”

“You are ‘entitled’ to prosecution for theft of company property. But we are letting you go without ruining your future career. If you think we are giving you a copy of your pornographic behaviour in the workplace, you are more stupid than I thought.”

“Well, how about–”

“And, before you ask, if we find your knickers, we will not be returning them.”

In her haste to end the meeting, Dominica slams her laptop shut, catching the play button with her thumb. Three incorrect passwords later, a hurried call to the support team for resolution and my ‘best bits’ pause on a close-up of my face. Drunk on passion, ready to experience my Double Orgasm.