W. Randall Mann. The ‘W’ stands for ‘Wright.’ Whatever his parents were thinking when they...but I won't go there. All I know is that for three years, I hated that fucker with a passion...and lusted after his good looks and hot body with the same fevered intensity. It was only fitting in a twisted, classically clichéd way that one of the handsomest men working in our offices at Synapsicon was also the most unpleasant to be around. Yet I also learned a very important lesson about the unpredictable ways of  'straight' guys, one I will truly never forget as long as I live.

So I want to take this opportunity to introduce you to somebody you've probably already met, more than once. His name may be different as well as his face, but believe me, you've been acquainted with him before, even when it was the last thing in life you ever wanted. Gentlemen, meet Mr. Wright...

"See, there were these two faggots on a plane to Chicago..." 

Yep, I knew that sound all too well. Randy "Wright Man" Mann was holding court again on a Friday morning.  He was an incorrigible jokemeister, and not in a good way. Like Andrew “Dice” Clay in his infamous heyday, he was the bane of political correctness; an equal opportunity offender whose topics covered the entire spectrum of off-color commentary: pussy jokes, retard jokes, jokes about Jews, Blacks, Hispanics, you name it. 

But his all-time favorites in the repertoire were gay jokes, or as he called them “faggot jokes.”

The man was literally a walking harassment lawsuit waiting to happen. So why wasn’t he fired ages ago?

Reason number one: As Chief Executive Director of Sales for Synapsicon’s North American interests, the man was good, responsible for having snagged several million dollar deals for the company. The company president, Jake Beaulieu didn’t exactly care for him, either, but Jake’s not stupid. Good sales people are hard to come by, and with his talents, Wright could possibly be wooed away by any rival company that would add a few more zeros to his salary if he weren’t happy here.

Reason number two: with a personality transplant, of course, if Wright ever decided to try his hand in the world of show biz, Mel Gibson wouldn’t stand a chance. The man was just that fucking hot.

He was always impeccably dressed, the tightly-muscled body he kept fit with fifty laps in the company pool every morning and a five-day workout regimen in the gym, clad in the kind of imported Italian suits that I couldn’t afford if I had THREE credit cards with a $10,000 limit on each one, (I have a hard-enough time with the one maxed-out card I do have). His broad, chiseled, almost Dudley Do-Right features were framed by the darkest, waviest, six-o’clock newscaster hair I’ve ever seen. The kind of hair that made you wonder how it would feel to run your fingers through it, while his head bobbed busily in your lap. Storm grey eyes that could twinkle so attractively with mischievousness, maliciousness and sometimes a heady and dangerous combination of both, completed the package. 

And speaking of…Just as those athletically-cut dress shirts barely contained his broad, heroically-sized chest, the immaculately tailored pants did nothing to conceal a basket that, if rumor was correct, made Wright one of the company’s truly BIG men.

For God’s sake, the man even had the chutzpah to wear gold, embroidered cufflinks, with “WRM” stamped in Gothic script on each one. A man of great tastes, with absolutely no class. Who had a reputation and a record as big as the Tall Tale about Paul Bunyan, and a heart about the size of an amoebae’s.

How I loathed working with Wright Mann. Seeing him everyday with that born-to-the-manor smugness on his handsome mug.

How I’d like to slam him over his desk, yank down those natty dress slacks and Calvin Kleins and stick my angry dick so far up his self-important ass he’d squeal louder than Ned Beatty in DELIVERANCE.

W.  Randall Mann was the main reason why I was barely out to anyone at the office. I didn’t feel there was a single thing wrong with my job as one of the team leaders on the support staff that worked in North American Sales. I actually loved my job; I just wished I could do it for somebody else.  I was sure that after three years of working for Mr. Mann, I was pretty close to bailing out the moment I found something else, my time at Synapsicon measured in days and weeks.

One thing’s for damn sure: if he ever tumbled to my sexual orientation, you could measure my time left in mere seconds.

There were only two people at the office that knew about me, whom I was sure I could trust implicitly. One was Doug Broderick, from the new Customer Quality Assurance office. I say new, because the position has only been open a year. An athletic, collegiate looking, friendly guy, and a new father to boot, Doug is the straight friend that every gay man should be lucky enough to have. If possible, he hated Mann more than I did, once saying that he felt bad about having to bring a kid into a world that had people like Randall Mann in it. See? That’s one of the main reasons why I like him. That, and we’re both Calgary Flames fans.

The night I came out to Doug was when were at O’Reilly’s Pub, a downtown restaurant and sports bar. It was my treat, because I wanted to get him into a relaxed atmosphere and mood before I dropped the “big one.” It couldn’t have been any less anti-climactic if Doug had been gay himself.  Not only did he already have an idea, but he said “All Cindy wants to know is if you have a steady boyfriend, and whether or not you’ll both come over for dinner sometime.” And that was it.  Doug would be the last person to tell anybody at the office about me, because he feels that the work should be what makes the difference, not the color of your skin or who you spend time in the bedroom with.

I can certainly see why Cindy married him.  I sure wish he were my boss.

The other guy is Barton Connolly, over in Advertising and Research.  Standing at only about 5’8” in dress shoes, Bart is the only guy I know who could nearly beat Wright in the physique department.  With short-cropped, dirty blond hair and a bookish, unassuming face behind horn-rimmed glasses, Bart seems reserved, almost shy.

I think the reason for a good deal of the empathy between us, is that we both share the same kind of fear; although he works in a completely different section, his boss deals with “Wright” Mann constantly, so coming out is completely out of the question for him as well. 

After the Florida weekend, we discovered that we had far too many personal and philosophical clashes to take the next step and actually move in together, so we bonded as buddies both in and out of the bedroom. Which turned out to be for the best in more ways than one. You can imagine my look of shocked surprise when I read the employee newsletter, and saw Bart’s placid face in the “Welcome, Newcomers!” column.  So we still got together for lunch and at coffee breaks, and we both agreed that living a closeted life at work was absolute torment.  But as long as Wright was around, we considered the devastating alternative, and decided to live with things, as they were the best way we could.  We may not have had a lot of office pals, but at least we could support each other.

Then, two unimaginably wonderful things happened that changed life for both Bart and me at Synapsicon forever: the day of the brownout, and the day that Anthony Charmoli came to work in the Mail Room. 

The brownout was the real watershed moment, especially for me personally, but let’s talk about Tony Charmoli first. I had to wonder myself what kind of hiring policy Synapsicon maintained, as there were a lot of black and Hispanic guys who worked in the Mail Room and in Shipping and Receiving, but only as few minorities and females as the company could get away with in the administrative offices, present company included. So to some people in the office, it seemed unusual to see a white guy for the first time in a good little while, pushing the cart around the hallways as he dropped off envelopes, packages and bundles. 

Bart and I were in the hallway near the break room on the sixth floor when he came through. From the first moment we said “Hi” to him and he returned the greeting with a nod and a smile, the knowing looks we gave each other confirmed we had the same impression: Tony was undoubtedly, confidently, brazenly 100% “family.”

How did we know? Well, let’s see now: how about his pants for a start? Tony had one of those big, bold, insolent muscle butts that you couldn’t ignore if you were gay, straight or otherwise inclined, and he seemed to have had every pair of pants he wore molded from it, rather than tailored for it. As for the rest of his hunky, Italianate twenty something bod? Think of Tony Manero in SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER as a Gold’s Gym-rat, and you have the picture.

Oh, did I neglect to mention the gold hoops in both ears and the punky, spiky, moussed-to death haircut he sported? And one thing more, which was his way of throwing open his own closet door with a resounding crash: along his hairline, across the back of his neck was a purple tattoo that you couldn’t miss: “GET USED TO IT.” (As in “We’re HERE! We’re QUEER!”…)
With a tiny rainbow triangle underneath.

From his first grand entrance, the new young clerk was a potential lightning rod for office controversy. And guess who the cloud was floating over him, just primed to deliver those charming thunderbolts?

When it came to sexual harassment, I’d seen and heard about some jaw-dropping cases of it before, but my boss took it to a new low! And here’s the absolute kick in the ass about the incidents: not only did Tony know what Wright’s game was; he seemed to enjoy the hell out of baiting him!

Once, during the first week, Tony had just picked up the mail from the sixth floor and was just taking it to the elevator, when Wright’s high, mocking falsetto sang out: “Yoo-hoo! Excuse me, sweet cheeks! Hold on!”

Mincing down the hallway in an obvious imitation of Tony, wrists going exaggeratedly limp, Wright caught up with him at the elevators with a fistful of envelopes.

“Would you please swish these down to the mailroom with you, Antonia?” Wright lisped, handing the envelopes to Tony with an over-dramatic, queenly flourish.
For just a few scant seconds as I stood near the elevators where I’d been waiting to go downstairs to the Print Shop, I thought I saw a flash of anger in Tony’s eyes, which was gone as quickly as it appeared. The butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth look he shot back at his detractor was worth the price of admission all by itself, but what he said to right was the absolute coup de grace.

“Honey,” Tony lisped right back, batting his eyes, “mascara doesn’t run as fast as I will. And about that walk, girlfriend? More ass, baby, more ass! Don’t throw no shade, darlin”! Just remember, ‘You’re beautiful, dammit!” And incredibly, as if scripted for a movie, the elevator arrived at that moment, and when the doors opened, Tony flounced on in with an insulting imitation of Wright imitating him.

When Mann flashed me a sudden sharp look, I had to turn away and cover my mouth with my hand so he couldn’t see me stifling brays of laughter.

The brownout took place on a Friday.  It had not been a very good day for any of us.  We were nearing the deadline on securing an important account with a major company, and Randy had been riding the team leaders’ asses all morning long.  When Tony had come up to deliver the morning mail, the exchange between him and Mann was especially vicious. Only Bart and I could recognize that under the animosity was this almost electric current of barely repressed lust.
Tony knew damn well as we did that underneath the homophobic, yuppiefied exterior, beat the heart of a dick-crazy dude just dying to bust out of the corporate closet.  My money was on Tony to have him breaking open that door in record time.

At lunchtime, a red-faced, sweaty Bart poked his head into my office.

“This bullshit is for the birds, man,” he griped.

I set down the report I was checking.  “What’s up?”

“Power company is shutting down certain grids periodically to lighten the load, because of all the AC that people are hogging up, and it’s gotta be fuckin’ a million degrees outside! I just came from Julius’ Place downtown.  They shut off their power just as I got my lunch. Good thing I went when I did.  Chances are it won’t be too much longer before we’re next.” That was a sure thing.  Julius’ Place was only a five-minute walk away from the Synapsicon Building.

“Well, shit,” I sighed, “I may as well make a pit stop and run out for a bite now, before we get hit.”

I stepped into the bathroom down the hall.  I went into the handicapped stall.  We don’t actually have any disabled employees on our floor, and I like the fact that it’s roomy and it has it’s own sink to wash up in, so I like using it the most.  As I closed the door, I heard someone come in. They jiggled the locked door of the handicapped stall, (obviously I wasn’t the only one who was a fan), then settled into the stall about two doors down.  Finishing up, I flushed, zipped up and turned to the sink to wash my hands.

Suddenly, the whole room was plunged into immediate and utter darkness.  Even Poe couldn’t have imagined or described a blackness as deep and as total as this.  I was quickly reminded about the time that Doug had passed on one of Mann’s nasty comments about me, how in the dark, “the only way you’d know Shelton was there is if he smiled.” Not in this midnight void. Smiling certainly wasn’t going to get me the fuck out of this bathroom anytime soon.  Feeling around, taking a hesitant few baby steps forward, I found my way out of the stall, then immediately barked my shin on something hard and wet—a urinal, maybe?  Muttering curses as I rubbed my sore leg, the familiar creak of a stall door opening shut me up immediately.

“Hey, Bart,” I hissed, having no earthly idea why in the hell I was whispering, “That you?”

No response. 

“Bart, Tony, whoever the fuck it is, say something! This shit is not funny!”

Reaching out in the darkness, my hand connected with what could only be a sink. There was a line of sinks that lead down to the bathroom door.  I figured I could use them to find my way there out into the hallway, where the emergency lights were bound to be on. 

One sink, two sinks, thr—

At the third sink, I felt for the rim, but what my hand connected with was obviously not porcelain.  Hard, yes, but pliant, warm, yielding and cloth covered…It was whoever had come out of the other stall.  And my hand was right in his crotch.

I gasped sharply once, then again as his hand joined mine, taking it and putting it inside the waistband of what I’d been feeling…his underwear.  Was he naked? If not, his pants were definitely off, or at least down around his ankles.  And inside the pouch of those briefs, what slapped up into my hand drew another gasp from me, but this time it was one of appreciation!

It was big, thick, pulsating, hot as a bakery oven and uncut, with enough foreskin that I could still slide the velvety sheath over the tip of his enormous prick, squeezing out at least a tablespoonful of sticky love juice, which I smeared all over his big piece, using it as all-natural lube. The moan my strokes pulled out of him seemed strangely familiar. This was insane!
Heavy petting in the men’s room of the office where I work, with somebody I didn’t know, or even worse somebody I DID?? What was I thinking?

I knew it was less a matter of what I was thinking, than what I was thinking with. And when the unseen horse-cocked stud reached out to slip his warm hands underneath my tee shirt to find my nips, I tossed my brain into the back seat of my subconscious, found his tie and used it to pull him to me as our lips met. Petting? That was for cute puppies. What we were about to do would make dogs in heat look downright disciplined.

I flipped his tie back in the darkness and fumbled for the buttons on his shirt.  His hands joined mine, helping me, until he muttered “Fuck this!” under his breath, and in a move born of horny desperation, he yanked it open, sending buttons clattering over the floor. I vaguely heard the clink of something metallic that went flying into a far corner of the room—change, maybe? --then nothing else registered as he clasped my head to his muscled, naked chest, my tongue tracing his hard, erect nipples and every indentation of the curve of his pecs and his rippling abs.

Holding on to my waist, he sank to his knees, fumbling for my belt buckle.  In less than three swift moves I had my pants and underwear down, and whatever rationality that came with fear of the dark and the unknown stranger in it melted completely away as my hard cock disappeared into the wet, velvet heat of his ravenous mouth. I hooked my shirt back around my neck and shoulders as his hand skimmed my hard chest and belly, devouring me all the while and doing things with his lips and tongue that had my knees trembling.

It had to be Bart, I thought feverishly.  Nobody else I know is as good at doing what I like instinctively.  It had been a long time between bedroom bouts for me and him. Too goddam long.
I felt my cock grow painfully, insistently hard between his viselike, talented lips.  I liked the way he was tasting me, but I wanted a taste of something else.  That sweet ass of his.

Pulling out, I hauled him to his feet, finding his face in the dark and sticking my tongue into it again.  As his wandering fingers found my sensitive chest, I used that monster of a cock as a handle to pull him tightly to me so we were chest-to-chest, reaching behind him to grab his furry, naked asscheeks.  As if I had radar in the dark, two of my fingers found the hot, slick pucker of his hole.  He sighed and shuddered as I sank them inside him.  I have never been with a guy who was more ripe and ready for a grand slam fuck than this one.  Yet something in the back of my buzzing head hissed, “This is not Bart! So who in the fuck is it???”  It certainly wasn’t Jake, though if it had been, I certainly wouldn’t have minded.  The man had a face as worn and cratered as that of Scott Glenn or Edward James Olmos, but he also had the hottest stud body I’d ever seen on a 50-plus year old guy.  He wouldn’t ever beat Mann’s physique, but I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating pretzels, either.

Turning him around, I bent him over and began to slap his cheeks with my turgid dick.  Fumbling in the darkness, he handed me something soft and pliable…my fingers recognized the shape immediately.  A condom?  Was this guy prepared for anything or what?  Or had he been up to something in the bathroom before the lights went out?  Something that HR would not approve of one little bit?

Not a single bit of that made any difference to me at all.  Whoever he was, he had awakened the Top Beast in me, and I was damn sure determined that if he walked out of the head at all, it was going to be with a smile and a pronounced limp.

He was holding onto something, maybe a sink, legs splayed out as he thrust his ass back towards me.  I rolled the safe on easily with one hand, the other still holding onto him as my thumb slipped in and out of his waiting chute, keeping him ready.  Not that it was necessary. 

Reaching back, he guided me in as I spread him open, my pole finding his hole in the dark with all the ease of a submarine docking at home port. He let out a low, deep chuckle of pleasure that inflamed my dick and my insides even more.  I’m not John Holmes by any means, but usually I have to go slowly and let the guy get used to my girth.  This fucker, though…he was loving it.

“Yeah, man,” he moaned urgently in the blackness.  “Slam that big fuckin’ dick  in my ass.  Fuck me HARD.”

Like I had to be told twice?  I rocked back, standing nearly tiptoe as I rammed into him with everything I had.  His muffled cries were rhythmic and guttural, as if he were biting his fist or his arm to dampen the sounds of his fuck-lust.  He in turn rocked back on the balls of his feet, meeting me thrust for thrust like his ass was on springs, squeezing with every upstroke, milking my bubbling seed further and further out of my churning nut sac.

It was over way too soon, but I couldn’t take anymore!  With one more bone-shaking thrust I pounded into him, leaning into his back and biting the back of his shirt with my teeth, using it to gag my own grunts as I exploded forcefully into him.  Reaching underneath him, I gripped his throbbing horsedick and cupped his balls as I stroked him off.  It only took one or two passes of my fist, as I felt him stiffen under me, and he started laughing!  It was like the laugh of a kid at Disney world…as if busting a nut with a guy plowing his ass was the only thing in the world that made him truly happy.  Now here was one dude who LOVED sex, and I mean loved it.

I cupped my hand beneath his cock as he let loose, and I could swear it was like he was pissing.  The streams of jizz that hit my open palm were audible, each making a splat as it trickled down through my fingers.  The entire room smelled of cum and sweat and sex musk, juice running down the back of his leg as I pulled out and the condom slipped off with a wet plopping sound.

Not a minute or two later, the door burst open and a bright beam of light just about blinded me.

“Hey!” a voice called out.  “Anybody in here?”

“Everybody except Ray Charles and Marlee Matlin!” I growled.  “What, are you TRYING to deafen and blind me all at once?”

“Shelton!” It was Doug Broderick.  “The old man has me and Bart both looking for your ass! I guess to make sure you hadn’t had a heart attack or something.”

“I’ve been right here all along, trying to take a leak.”

“Well, I wished you’d made it easier for us to find you, Dan.  Maybe you should’ve just…smiled!”

“Oh, ha ha, Doug!  Fuck you!”

He laughed.  “Well, get yourself together, man.  They might send us home early if this brownout 
shit lasts too much longer.”

With Doug holding the flashlight, I fixed my clothes and washed my hands.  Either he was totally oblivious, (and Doug is not idiot), or he was just pretending not to notice the way he’d found me when he busted in. 

I chuckled to myself as I dried my hands.  Leave it to him to make one of Randy’s insults sound funny.  Maybe you should’ve just…

I froze.  Could the mystery man have actually been…?

“NAAAAH,” I said to myself, finishing the thought and scoring two points in the wastebasket as I left with Doug.

The following Monday started as usual, or so it seemed.  When I got to the office, Bart was waiting for me on my floor near the reception area.  I’d never seen him like this.  His usually bordering-on-somber face only changed expressions when I was sitting on it…or he was sitting on mine.  Now it was lit up like Christmas In July, with an ear-to-ear grin.

“What the hell has got you so pumped?” I asked, amazed.

“Oh, shit, Dan,” he breathed, exhaling absolute joy.  “You have fucking GOT to hear this.”

We went into my office and closed the door.  Not a second afterward, Bart blurted out the story.

“Friday, after Jake sent everybody home early, he was on his way out.  You know him—he’s anal about little details like making sure everybody’s out, right?  So he’s just sort of glancing through the offices, when all of a sudden the lights come back on.  Well, he’s right there in front of good ol’ Randy Wright’s office, and what do you think he sees? The Wright Man himself, naked from the waist down, kicked back in his chair like John Holmes with his sausage stuffed halfway down somebody’s throat!”

“Get the fuck OUT!” I cried gleefully.

“But wait, there’s more!” Bart chortled.  “They had some kind of a meeting early this morning, and there was something about lawsuits and sexual harassment.  And the whole time, good ol’ Randy swears up and down that the guy put the moves on him first on Friday, in the bathroom! How do ya like that?”

“C’mon, man!” I cried impatiently. “Who the hell are we talking about here?”

“Oh, no, baby,” my sometime fuck buddy positively purred, his eyes gleaming. “I had to save the best part for last.”

As if that had been the cue line in a play, there was a knock on the door.

Tony Charmoli came in, and literally knocked my eyeballs out.  He was dressed to the nines in a killer three-piece business suit that looked way too expensive for him to own on what he made, punk hairdo trimmed down to a respectable brush cut.  He was every bit the corporate hunk as he leaned over the desk and shook my hand.

“Just wanted to come down and welcome you back to the office as your new boss,” he said, grinning.  “Also to thank you for your part in making it possible, and to tell you how happy I am that we have the world’s shittiest janitorial service.”  Reaching into the pocket of his suit coat, he placed an object in my hand and closed my fingers around it.  “Found this in the bathroom, on the way out after Jake told me he wanted to see me in his office Monday morning.” And winking at us both, he left without another word.

I looked into my palm, saw what I was holding and started to laugh helplessly.

“What?” Bart cried impatiently.  “What the fuck is up?”

Nearly doubling over with laughter, I handed him the solid gold cufflink, emblazoned with the letters “WRM” in Gothic script.

He gave me a puzzled grin, watching me, as they say in CyberGeek Speak: “ROTFLMAO.”

“Roll On The Floor, Laughing My Ass Off” for the uninitiated.