It’s 8.30am. You walk into your office. Your boss gives you an apologetic nod. You acknowledge said nod with a small, defeated nod in return. You walk over to your work space, place your forearms and head on your desk and listen to the sound of someone putting on a rubber latex glove behind you. You grit your teeth and hope the next 9, 10, 11 hours won't be too painful.
This was how I described my work week to a friend who asked recently. He immediately pointed out the irony of getting boned at work but not at home. Note, this same friend, instead of asking me how my sex life is going, generally greets me with a ‘hey, how’s your slowly reforming hymen going?’ Yes, it would appear I’m at that awkward age where my non-existent sex life is a joke.
I guess work can be like sex in some ways. Bare with me, I have some points, I promise. A good day at work, doing something you love, can make you feel excited, accomplished, valued and confident. A bad day, however, can make you feel dirty, used, unappreciated and generally just make you wish you never left home. Just like a bad one-night stand.
You know that career advice ‘fake it til you make it’? The same thing can be applied to bad sex. Although, like the career application, it shouldn’t be. Ever. Nothing good has ever come from faking it. In the work context, faking it can lead to bosses and colleagues losing confidence in you (because ultimately your ability comes down to your performance). It can lead to you not learning how to actually do your job - if you’re pretending you already know how. And worst case, it could lead to you getting fired.
In the sack, faking it means you think your man’s ego is more important than your pleasure (it shouldn’t be, ever). It also means he now thinks his B-Grade sex is shit hot so he doesn’t need to change a thing, and the cycle of shitty sex is perpetuated (thanks a lot). It also makes it super-awkward the next time you have sex and need to come up with an excuse as to why the same technique he has been using no longer gives you mind-blowing orgasms. (No babe, I totally love it when you jack-hammer me from behind for an hour straight, I’m just not feeling it this time).
When you’re getting boned at work time goes slower. It’s maths. Even if you’ve got a whole pile of important shit on your desk to get through and you’re flat out, it still goes slower than when you’re enjoying your work and doing the things you love. Same goes for sex.
An example, if I may. The night started out innocently enough, a few cocktails with the girls. Four hours later you’re swapping saliva in the cab with a roided up douchebag who looks like he’s just come from stereosonic. Half an hour later you’re on your back and he’s pounding away and you notice the clock in his room. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The first 10 minutes you spend trying to make it enjoyable until you finally accept that’s not going to happen. The next 10 you’re mentally writing a list of all the things you have to get done tomorrow. Thirty minutes in, you’re scoping out his room and scripting the best zombie-apocalypse escape plan. (You decide the best bet would be to use roid-head as a human shield.) And of course the last ten minutes you spend coming up with excuses to end the pounding and get the fuck out of dodge.
Just like you would during a hard day at the office.
(An aside: Fortunately I am at an age now where I don't have to put up with this kind of shit. I would rather no sex than bad sex. And so it has been. This example was cobbled together from a few hazy memories of old and anecdotes from friends.)