Poor Harold
“He can’t believe yet another CEO was fired for sexual harassment. He isn’t like those poor bastards…”
Content advisory: Sexual situations, possible triggers
Harold Egan listens to the news as he drives to work. He can’t believe yet another CEO was fired for sexual harassment. He remembers Ed from the gym, a paunchy, fifty-something guy with a loud voice and fiercely held opinions on capital gains. Harold helped spot him once as he struggled to bench 350 pounds. Ed said thank you like a gentleman. He seemed like a good guy.
Harold shakes his head, shifting his Porsche into high gear and zipping onto the freeway. He isn’t like those poor bastards who made women do carnal things against their will. He has charisma. Women love him. He doesn’t have to force them. He just has to ask. Hell, sometimes they ask him.
Harold loves coming to work in the morning. His employees greet him with a wave and a smile. And why shouldn’t they? He’s their king. He likes to take the long way, so he can see his people. Elderly Bev in accounting. The three quirky developers all named Max. Hyper Mitch, the head of sales. The sexy marketing chick, what’s her name. He cares for them all.
When he reaches his office, which is bigger than his first apartment, he is stopped by his assistant Stella, a curvy redhead who reminds him of Jessica Rabbit. She’s wearing her hair down; she must have a big date tonight. Her V-neck shirt exposes the tops of her breasts. They’re the color of milk flecked with nutmeg, and he wants to lick every single freckle…
Harold takes a deep breath and congratulates himself on his self-control. When he finally meets her eyes, her expression is a disappointment. Her pretty mouth is all twisted and sour.
“There’s an intern in your office. She said she had an appointment with you, but she isn’t on the calendar.”
He’d forgotten about the intern — Terry or Tabitha or something. Harold smiles brightly. It’s going to be a wonderful day.
With a woman sliding up and down his joystick, thumping against his hairy belly and crooning his name, Harold is the most powerful man in the world. He smiles at the spiky haired intern — Tara? Tricia? — as her small, plum-sized breasts flop up and down. He loves her enthusiasm.
To be completely honest, she isn’t the most attractive woman he’s ever fucked. Her eyes are too close together. Her neck is too short. Her waist is too thick. And her legs are far too spindly, ending in comically narrow calves as if the god who made her had run out of material. She’s a five-and-a-half at best.
But her imperfections make her distinctive, and so they are acceptable, at least right now. And she had wanted him so badly. “I know I’m self-taught,” she said, “and I suck at algorithms, but I can hack any system known to man. I need a real job that pays real money. I’ll do anything — anything — if you give me a chance.” When she put her small, smooth hand on Harold’s large, furry one, the deal was sealed.
He is thoroughly enjoying himself when wind chimes echo through his office. They start softly and grow louder. Play time is over. His next meeting will start in ten minutes. He leans into the explosion he’s been holding back, exploding with a long sigh that is the cue for the woman — Tea? Tali? — to dress and go.
Fortunately, she’s smart enough to dismount without a word and clean herself with the baby wipe he keeps on his custom-crafted desk. He freshens up, too, chucking his condom into the waste basket and spraying himself with Axe. When she’s decent again — as decent as a little slut like her can be — she approaches him humbly like the peasant she is.
“Now when can we schedule, um, the real interview?” she asks with a ghost of a wink.
A relaxed smile creeps across his face. “Talk to Stella, my assistant. She’ll find a good time next week. I’ll bring our chief engineer along, too.”
He feels a pang of guilt as she grins at him and flounces out of his office. Stella will make up creative excuses until she finally gives up. Any woman who would fuck a stranger in exchange for an unenforceable promise has terrible judgment and would make an impulsive, unstable employee.
“If your company partners with our startup, you could leverage our customer base to cross-sell…”
Harold allows the founder’s words to wash over him. She is tall and leggy in a short, leather skirt and thick tights. Curly, jet black hair cascades down her back. Her name is Molly or Monica — something that starts with an M — and she is looking for investments in her tiny little startup that does something or other with data analysis.
He supposes the problem is her voice. It’s loud and high and screechy, the strident wail of an ugly woman demanding cash from a beleaguered man. His family kept pigs when he was a child, and her voice reminds him of their hungry squeals. And it’s a shame, too, because this woman — Melissa? Margo? — is stunning.
Her breasts are large, and her waist is tiny. He wonders if the breasts are fake or real. Few women with truly slender frames end up with double-Ds. Not that he’s judging. Not at all. He doesn’t care either way, he’s just boyishly curious. Yes, he would love to open her blouse and pull off her skirt to know the precise proportions of her body.
Perhaps he should invite her to dinner, but the prospect of even pretending to listen to her voice gives him a headache. He wants to shut her up, and he has a brilliant idea. He’s an amazing kisser. Women tell him so all the time. He’ll kiss this woman and shut her up, and then they’ll both be happy.
She looks flustered as he rises from his chair and walks towards her. She really is a slender little thing. “Um, what are you doing? What’s going on?”
She takes a small step back, but she doesn’t yell or tell him not to touch her. All systems go. He places his hands on her shoulders and presses his lips against hers — oh, they are sweet. It’s an epic kiss. He can tell she’s excited by the way she squirms. She wants him bad. He slides a hand into her shirt and slips it under her lacy bra. Her breast comes free with just a little tug. It is soft and utterly natural. He never would have guessed.
He’s about to invite her into his office — the couch is incredibly comfortable for spontaneous sex — when she pulls away. She scurries to the conference table, grabs her things, and runs for the door. He is disappointed, but he understands. She obviously wants him, but doesn’t want him to think she’s a slut. She rises a notch in his estimation. Maybe he’ll ask her to dinner, after all.
“Hey, wait a minute!” he cries, but she’s gone. He shakes his head. He was going to tell that her boob is hanging out.
Harold is stroking himself in his office. The hot, black-haired startup woman — Margo? Marcy? — left him with blue, swollen balls. If they had fucked just a little, he would have been glad to listen to her pitch despite her terrible voice. Instead, he is stuck masturbating, his old standby from high school and college, when no girl would deign to look at his chubby, furry body.
And then...KABOOM! He has a brilliant idea. He knows how he can turn a dull bit of office masturbation into something truly exciting. He uses his free hand to turn on his speaker phone and dials Stella’s extension.
“Hey, Stella, I’m having trouble with my Outlook calendar again.”
The crazy look on Stella’s face when he spurts is priceless. And she can’t get mad, right? After all, he didn’t even touch her.
Harold is getting a drink with two old college buddies — Stan and Alex, both venture capitalists with money to burn. They’re talking about the latest sexual harassment scandal to hit the Valley.
“I think a lot of these women are just disgruntled,” says Stan, taking a sip of a locally brewed IPA. “They’ve found the perfect way to get revenge on their bosses.”
Alex nods enthusiastically, wobbling his double chin. “Seriously. And the men have no recourse. Where’s the fucking due process?”
Harold is about to opine that the best defense against these sorts of claims is to be a good boss and an even better lover when he gets a text from Stella.
The sensors in your house are going crazy. It could be a burst pipe. You should check it out.
“Sorry guys,” he says, chuckling. “It’s the old ball and chain. I’ve gotta go.”
Stan rolls his eyes. “Say hi to Jessica Rabbit.”
Harold’s house is a Silicon Valley palace, a two-story stucco house with a small courtyard and a pool, which would be entirely unremarkable anywhere else. He doesn’t hear rushing water when he steps inside, but he trusts sensors as much as his eyes. He checks the house methodically, clearing one room at a time as if he were QAing a buggy routine.
When he reaches the bedroom, he is shocked to discover two women sitting on his lavish, king-sized bed: the blond intern and the black-haired founder with the bad voice.
“We talked to Stella,” brays the founder. “She said you deserve a special surprise.”
The intern nods and smiles. “How ‘bout a threesome?”
Harold cannot believe his luck. He wishes Stan and Alex could see him now. This is what happens when you’re so alpha and so damn good in bed that women just can’t stay away. He joyfully chucks his clothes and leaps onto the bed, naked as a baby. This moment is the culmination of a long, often painful journey from sad, masturbating high school reject to master of the universe.
The intern ties soft ropes around his wrists, lashing him to his imported bed frame. The founder secures his feet. He read something online about Japanese bondage. He wonders if that’s what they’re doing.
“Are you two into shibari? And why are you still dressed? Why are you wearing masks?”
The founder places a ball gag in his mouth and cinches it tight. It tastes like vinyl, and it’s rather uncomfortable. He tries talking around it — this is too much, he wants it off — but he can only produce muffled whimpers. He feels a sharp twinge of fear.
The intern shakes her head and takes the founder’s hand. “I told you he wouldn’t understand.”
The founder shrugs. “He’ll have a lot of time to think about it.”
“Well, not that much time. The webcam will start streaming in about 12 hours.”
“Plenty of time for him to piss himself.”
The intern kneels by the bed and, for a single, heart-thumping moment, Harold’s world is normal again. This is all part of some kinky sex game, it must be. She kisses his forehead through her nylon mask. Covered up like this, she is really sort of beautiful.
“Poor Harold.”
