Work

 

Let it be my way, just once!" she thinks, squeezing her eyes shut. They didn't want her at one company, they didn't give her a reason for refusing. Maybe she was too intelligent, too pretty, too educated. Or maybe she just wasn't good enough. She squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to think like that. After repeated failures in the corporate wrestling match, her self-confidence begins to melt like snow in a puddle.

At the other company, she failed the final qualification tests. She was stressed by the possibility of another failure, exhausted by the long journey to an unknown place. But everything was going well; she held on bravely until the very end. She spent her breaks at the coffee machine, a practiced smile plastered on her face. The next day, an email arrived from them, which she read biting her lips. They hurt.

The worst part is that no one knows why. Never. What is she doing wrong? Where is the flaw in her appearance, behavior, education? Why do they always prefer others?

She takes decisive, hasty steps. She walks with such confidence. No one knows she's a bundle of insecurities. And this success with men, following her from a very young age, when older boys in the yard would nod their heads at her, saying, "She'll be pretty." She was eight years old then. She grew, and each year more and more people admired her beauty. The first glances, the first loves began. There were always many interested men, admirers. Today, walking down the street, she could count the male glances on both hands.

She stops at the entrance, takes a deep breath. Tapping her not-so-high heels, she enters the office building. The receptionist gives her a disinterested look from behind her high desk. Immediately, a fake smile spreads across her face. She probably remembered what she was taught in the training entitled "How to Treat Customers to Contribute to a Positive Image of My Company."

"The director will be here shortly," he says after a short phone conversation during which he gives her his name. "Please sit down and wait."

She sits down and stares at the walls, the window. Her mind goes blank. She thinks of nothing. She spent half the night preparing for the interview, researching the industry, visualizing herself signing the contract, visualizing herself in a new job. If only there were a foolproof way to do this. If only it were possible to know what people like, what they prefer. If only it were enough to have the qualifications required in the job postings. But no. There are many qualified candidates, many recruiters. Each of them has different preferences, and their choices are often determined by their personal visions of the future employee.

She doesn't want to think about it, because she feels a rising cloud of stress that has been replacing her stomach for the past few days.

The director hesitates, a quarter of an hour passes, and another begins. Then he appears before her and extends his hand for a sluggish handshake. He's still young, barely over forty, well-groomed, balding, and featureless. A man she passes every day on the street. He smells of some strong perfume that reminds her of casinos, gold debit cards, signet rings.

"Come to my office," he gestures, letting her go ahead. She stiffly climbs the stairs and knows his gaze is sweeping over her figure. She hates it, but she's used to it. Men can't help but stare at what nature has given her; that's just how it is, she'll always be a bit of an object, she's resigned to that.

The office is large, spacious, and hasn't been aired out in a long time. The air is cloying with the leather armchairs. He shows her a seat at the round table, leans over the leather folder on the desk, and pulls out her curriculum vitae.

"What do we have here..." he murmurs, leafing through the papers she mailed him a few days ago.

He sits down opposite her. He looks up from the documents and looks into her eyes.

"Tell me something about yourself..."

It begins as always, with a story about her education, qualifications, current job. She speaks slowly, choosing her words carefully, trying not to look nervous. The director doesn't take his eyes off her face, following the movements of her irises. Something begins to form in the depths of his pupils. Something beyond simple interest in her candidacy for a future employee.

"How long have you been wanting to change jobs? How long have you been looking?" he interrupts her with an unusual question.

"Yes..." she replies, slightly surprised, blushing slightly, the directness of the question disconcerting her.

"You have good qualifications..." he says, looking deep into her eyes, "but you see... there are many here with those qualifications."

She has no answer. They look at each other in silence for a moment, she tense and confused by the turn of the conversation, he calm, with a strange expression on his slightly smiling face.

"I have several applicants for this position," the director continues, "mostly men. Tell me," he leans across the table toward her, lowering his voice a half-tone, as if the conversation were about to take on a more intimate tone, "why should I choose you?"

She remembers this question; it's one of the most common ones asked during job interviews: "Why do you consider yourself the ideal candidate?" "What benefit will you bring to our company?" "You'll have a good salary, and what will we get out of you?" She searches for the right phrases in her head; the sentences she's uttered in previous interviews are forming themselves and coming out of her mouth in carefully prepared combinations. The director looks at her with a bored expression, as if he's not listening, as if what she's saying doesn't interest him, as if this isn't the answer he wanted. She begins to feel uncomfortable under the gaze of his watery gray eyes. Her words become jumbled, she clears her throat, starts over, her sentences get jumbled. She can't gather her thoughts. Then he glances at her cleavage. And again. He does it openly, not hiding his interest, on the contrary, as if he believes he has a right to it and almost wants her to know it. Lecherous glances follow one another, until his gaze settles firmly on her breasts, hidden beneath her fitted suit.

Then she begins to understand.

She has no idea how to react, can't believe this is happening to her. She hears about it on TV, reads about it in the newspapers. It reminds her of American sensations about sexual exploitation, about harassed employees. On top of all that, she wants this job so badly! She knows this company from stories, from articles—good salaries, opportunities for rapid promotion, business trips, investing in employees, improving skills. She falls silent, still, afraid to make a move. She's afraid she's wrong, that every reaction she makes will be inappropriate, that she might mess something up and lose the position. When the director reaches across the table and touches her hand, her knees soften. She doesn't move, and his warm, moist fingers creep up her skin, under her sleeve.

She swallows when she feels his other hand on her knee, under the table. The director looks her in the eye with a cheeky smile.

"Well, why should you be the chosen one?"

She doesn't answer; it all feels like a dream. The director's hand massages her knee, then her thigh, his other hand joining hers, and they both indulge in exploring her legs through her smooth pantyhose. She wasn't prepared for this turn of events. Suddenly, he stands and moves to the other side of the table, unzips his fly, "yes... he purrs, maybe that's why, maybe that's why." She closes her eyes as his exposed penis parades shamelessly before her face, its head wet, smeared with the mucus that must have accumulated during the penetration of her thighs. This sudden image is so incredibly carnal, so incongruous with the cold, professional decor of the office, that it seems unreal. It's just a dream, it flashes through her mind as she feels his hard, smooth tip against her lips. She participates in this dream, her body like cotton, leans back in her chair, and yields to his fleshy pressure. It's stiff and sticky. She closes the doors to her senses, feels nothing, no smell, no taste, squeezes her eyes shut, only the touch she can't avoid, her mouth full of it. "That's why, oh yes, good, very good, baby..." the director murmurs, leaning first one way, then the other, and so they both remain in this dream, moving lazily as if their bodies weighed a ton, his hips more, her head more, back and forth.

A light slap on her tongue and a bitter taste spreading all the way down her throat wakes her. The goo fills her mouth, the spurts following one another, one, two, another, "yes," the director moans, "ahhm!", holding her still head with both hands. Only after a few seconds does she realize her eyes are wide open and she can count the zipper on his pants. The sensations return, she discovers them one by one, as if discovering she has a body. Her knees ache from the kneeling position, her jaw barely resists the resistance of the solid shape between her teeth, and she so desperately wants to clench her fists.

A thought flashes through her mind: What are you doing?!

She immediately stands, shakes out her skirt, steps back, and subconsciously wipes her mouth with her sleeve; a wet, slightly sticky mark remains.

The director breathes heavily as he zips his fly, runs a hand through his hair, and sits back down at his desk.

"Sit down," he gestures to the chair opposite her. He flips through her several-page CV—all good schools, decent experience...

She takes a seat across from him, not quite understanding what's happening in this office, before her eyes, with her participation, as if she'd lost control of herself and been directed by someone else, pulling the invisible strings that controlled her body's movements. In reality, she feels uneasy and cold, as if she were dead. Under the table, she pinches her wrist.

The director finishes inspecting the document, raises his head, and looks her in the eye.

"You'll make a career with us!" he finishes cheerfully, his eyes revealing nothing but satisfaction at a job interview well-concluded. "We'll go to the HR office to discuss the terms of the contract. Please, go first."

Without a word, she stands and walks towards the door, following the man's hand. In the doorway, she feels her weight on her buttocks.

She turns and looks him in the eye.

"There won't be any contract," she hisses, directly into his face, expressing satisfaction.

"What?... How so??!

The director blushes, then suddenly calms down, clears his throat, and tries to regain his composure and confidence.

"You're refusing? You won't take advantage of such an opportunity? Now that's something... I've never had someone refuse me, someone I gave a chance to... Fine, if she wants, we can forget about everything..."

Her body churns, seethes, fights the numbness, and regains herself, along with the energy to act and her clarity of mind.

"Oh no...oh no...I won't forget, and you can be sure you won't forget me either," she says through gritted teeth and leaves. With her old, quick, determined gait, she walks the corridors of the office building. Her only thought is where to find the addresses of organizations dealing with the sexual harassment of women at work. She'll contact them immediately

and... she'll send them her CV and cover letters today. Who knows.