“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he swept into the conference room. He deftly unbuttoned his jacket with the flick of a wrist as he took his seat next to Reese and casually avoided her hard stare.  The smolder of my indignation at his casual subterfuge was bucking against the Pavlovian vibration that accompanied his nearness, like the south poles of two magnets wrestling with each other. I could not bring myself to look at his face, yet had already voraciously taken his fuzzy, coppery suede loafers and the sheen of the finely woven gold and blue striped socks that clung to the top of his foot and raced up beneath the cuff of his linen pants legs. 

The socks were new to me. The loafers were not. 

We had opted for an Econolodge the time I had acquainted myself with those particular shoes. Not something that I think either of us were proud of, but we had been in the dismal throes of winter and we were able to use cash.  I suppose I could have had him over to my place, but that would have violated my anonymity clause. At the time, I had interpreted his own lack of invitation as respect for the terms of our arrangement. I now saw he had had reasons of his own. Namely a wife and a child.

He had worn thick cashmere socks with his loafers that day—taupe, burgundy, and indigo argyle.  It was the only thing he had on when he stretched out on the bed and I lowered myself between his legs. I took my time. It was bleak Saturday, the room was ours for the day, and I had been in the mood to protract his release until he begged. 

Beg he did. 

After nearly an hour, the room heavy with sweat, Coworker had raised his arms above his head and pressed his palms into the pleather headboard, groaning with impatience. He drew his legs in like butterfly wings framing my head.  His musk had filled my nostrils and quickened my pulse. I had swiveled to see one of those lovely argyle socks now by my face, bunched around his foot as it slid on the low thread count sheets. When I pulled back and flicked my tongue lightly across his frenulum, his toes had curled. 

I finally brought him to a finish when I clasped my hands over both of his feet and braced myself against him in a marathon stretch of quick thrusts. By the time he was in the midst of his petite mort, now limp in a tangle of damp bed linens, I was beyond desperate to come myself.  

But Coworker had never asked. Never offered. 

And I didn’t complain. Especially that day, when he had left to shower and I emptied myself into one of his suede loafers. In the first moments of restored mental clarity that followed, I had briefly pondered at his lack of reciprocation.  I had swabbed at the insole of his shoe with a Kleenex and vaguely wondered just how exactly our unspoken transactions worked, but had never dared to delve too deeply at the risk of losing what I already had—of way of living out my fantasies. 

Now it made sense. Now it was clear why Coworker took but never gave. Now I could see why my bizarre desire for anonymity had remained unquestioned. And now I could also see the same loafer I had made love to peeking out from under the edge of the conference table.  I stood quickly, gathered my papers, and muttered an excuse for my sudden departure, not glancing up to meet his questioning eye or Reese’s inevitable ice glare. 

---

I was at a red light when I finally wrenched the phone out of my pocket. Three unread messages. One was from Reese, a surprisingly human “is everything okay?”  The other two were from him. Coworker. Grant Benson. The first was from over an hour ago, when I had been seeking out what I now knew to be his office. “Come on, man. I’m need it so bad lol.”  The second was from less than ten minutes ago. A single question mark. 

I felt a surge of hot anger. Aside from my request to leave our names out of it, everything had been on his terms. To suit his needs. And I had deluded myself into thinking that the satisfaction I had gotten out of the arrangement had been worth it. Or—dare I even say it?—fair.   I pitched the phone into the passenger seat with a full thud and wrung the steering wheel with a crunching death grip. 

The bleep of a construction vehicle in reverse drew my attention to the side of the road, where land that had once been a lush meadow—like an intermission for suburban sprawl—had succumbed to being raped and flattened like everything else, the raw red earth laid bare to pave the way for some monstrosity like a QVC distribution hub.  Which momentarily distracted me with thoughts of purchasing a new toaster oven. 

Two workers in hi-viz vests were standing just off the shoulder, unfurling mesh emblazoned with the logo of a massive construction company and clipping it to the fresh chain link fence that skirted the site. Have you ever noticed that these guys often work in pairs, but one gets the crappy job?  Sort of like how one guy gets to drive the garbage truck, but the other hangs off the back next to its yawning orifice.  Or, in this case, one stood on what remained of the grassy ditch beside the road, unspooling the mesh, while the other slopped through ground softened by spring thaw and the relentless tread of the vehicles that marked “progress.” 

I noted the latter’s work boots, which had a Timberland shape that was unverifiable under the slick coating of clay, which had slathered up from their chunky soles to two inches past the hem of his jeans. 

I found myself adjusting my pants and drifting back to the summer I was fifteen, when during an afternoon at Indian Creek State Park, my friend Jordy had insisting on adopting a bog turtle. I could see him now, stepping out onto the muddy expanse beside the creek as we watched from our picnic blanket. My friend Christina repeatedly called for him to “leave the poor thing alone,” which had probably only egged Jordy on in his quest for the ridiculous. We had always worked well as a trio because we each filled a role—Christina and Jordy being diametrically opposed and me sitting passively between them.  

And on that day, I had simply observed as Jordy planted a Nike in goo halfway to his destination (amid Christina’s continued protestations), which fixed it in place with such unexpected vigor that his socked foot had left it behind before he even knew what was happening. There was the whispering sound of his heel popping out from its laced confines like a small gasp, and then the resultant splat of the green puma sock finding a landing place as Jordy fought to balance himself. 

Both he and Christina had erupted in laughter as he lifted his sodden and misshapen foot up for our inspection and globules of clay and rotten vegetation slid off and plopped to the ground. I had smiled demurely and hid my raging erection. 

The car behind me gave a courtesy toot, and I shook myself from my trance and pulled away as the construction worker in question kicked the excess clay from his boot against the rattling chainlink. I found myself smirking and sizzling from a fresh wave of excitement as a crazy idea bubbled up from the mire. By the time I had reached the next red light, the idea had congealed into a plan. I scooped the phone off the seat and my thumbs dashed off a quick text to Grant Benson. “Meet me at pavilion no. 5 at Reservoir Park ASAP.”