story / Herschel Gaer
Johannes says he needs to talk. It’s late and we’ve all had too much wine. The rest of the dinner party guests are gathered out on the porch watching fireworks. We’re the only ones left at the table when he explains that he has some thoughts about the situation with my current boss/his ex-girlfriend. They didn’t end well. She dumped him on his birthday about a year ago. He’s still very bitter about it.
Earlier, during dessert, I mentioned that I was in line for a promotion but didn’t think it was going to happen since I didn’t kiss enough ass. In his thick German accent he explains to me that his ex is a whore and he’s convinced that she has had a thing for me. Says he’s been doing some thinking about my situation and has some advice. Before I can get a word in he gets real dark.
“Want my opinion? You take her out for a fancy dinner and get her loaded on that cheap champagne she loves. Get the bitch back to the basement hallway of your old apartment building and fuck the living shit out of her,” not joking in the least. He suggests me to write this down.
“Now, right before you ejaculate, slow the sex rhythm down and look deep into those big brown eyes of hers. Tell her how you love her and this is all you’ve been fantasizing about doing for months. ‘We’re meant to be,’ and all that jazz. You better make it sound real convincing too,” he barks like a possessed propaganda film director from a bygone era.
“Describe in detail the beautiful emaciated hook nosed babies you’re about to give her. Groan and sweat like you are power lifting on a cliff over a humid Mediterranean gorge. Sell it. I know her, she’ll eat it all up. When you’re ready to blow, yank your spaetzle out and splooge all over her face. All the while preaching how deeply into her you are.
Now, from here on out, cut off all eye contact. Stare at the ceiling and take a deep intense breath. Reach for that blouse you ripped off her and carelessly wipe your prick clean. Toss the garment aside with disinterest.” He’s really relishing in the humiliation.
“Keep that ceiling gaze and start clearing your throat loudly. Spit over your shoulder onto the wall behind you. It’s insulting. Get dressed in silence. Tell her you’re going to pick up a pack of smokes and you’ll be right back. Then you walk out that door and don’t look back. Block her number and email. Radio silence. It will blow her fucking controlling mind. She’s doesn’t know how to deal with rejection. We’ll wait a week or so and then I’ll call her to break it down that while you thought she was nice and all you don’t really see a future with her.”
After a long pause the only thing I can say is, “Johannes, I’m not sure this is such a good idea, you know? I still work there.”
He gets very quiet. Arms folded he leans against the back of his chair in disbelief and disgust. Takes a long inhaled drag of his cigarette. Slowly he starts shaking his head back and forth, mutters something in German.
I ask, “What?”