The Text Message

The drive to a friend's birthday party didn't seem like the occasion on which Mark and Lauren's relationship would completely fall apart. But sometimes it's hard to see these things coming.

Mark and Lauren met on a blind date. Lauren—playing defense, just in case Mark was a disaster—set up a gauntlet of four locales (bar, bowling alley, friend's party, Chinese restaurant), each giving her the opportunity to ditch in case things went badly.

They didn't. That was five months ago, and between Lauren sharing Mark's love for sports, and Mark beside himself at the idea of a girl looking the way Lauren does dating him, now Lauren was even toying with asking Mark to move in with her. But that was before tonight.

"Heather was in your sorority?" asked Mark, driving while fiddling with the radio.

"No," said Lauren. "I worked with her until she moved with a bunch of attorneys over to Hayward. It looked like this awesome opportunity to make partner until Hayward totally blew up and now she hates it."

"Heather was hilarious," she continued. "There was this guy in our office—Steve—he was a boob-watcher. And this one time, Heather—"

"That's like a real term?" interrupted Mark. "A term of art? 'Boob-watcher?'"

Lauren laughed. "It was with the women I worked with. There are just these guys that can't stop looking. Anyway, Steve was a boob-watcher. He's actually this guy I dated for a little while. And Heather one time—this was so funny—right in the middle of the office, she caught him looking at her boobs and she tilted her head so it was at chest-level, right in his line of sight and she was like, 'Hi, Steve!' He was totally embarrassed."

The anecdote wasn't what caught Mark's attention.

"You dated this guy?"

"Yeah," she said.

"You dated the boob-watcher."

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Not that long."

It'd been a long while since Mark had felt it, this weird...sensation. The last time, he recalled later, was when his high school girlfriend told him she was thinking of maybe asking his best friend to prom. And he was feeling it again, right now, in the back of his throat.

"...Why would you do that?!" he asked.

"What do you mean 'why would I do that?'" said Lauren. "He was nice."

"Nice? He ogled women in your office, but that was okay because he was nice?"

"It was just funny...it wasn't that big of a deal."

"When you went out on dates, was he checking out your rack?"

"Um...yeah," she laughed, "but like I said—"

"Every woman in the world says that's totally repugnant behavior," said Mark. "I mean, if every girl in the office notices him doing this then he's got a serious problem."

"Why are you so upset about this?" she asked.

"Do you not see why this is weird? It's like if a flasher exposed himself to you, and instead of calling the cops you asked him up for drinks. His behavior's unacceptable and I don't see how that translates into 'boyfriend.' And then..."

Mark paused.

"And then...you know, you dated him for how long...I mean, he probably..."

"Probably what?"

He knew he shouldn't say it. But then he did.

"Did he, like...you know...get to feel your tits?"

"What kind of a question is that?!" asked Lauren.

"It's a totally valid question! I mean, this stalker-ish guy is obsessed with your breasts, right? Did you let him touch them?"

Silence.

"You're telling me you dated this guy and he never got to, like...hold them?" asked Mark. "Never played with them? Caressed them?"

"Never rubbed his face in th—"

"Yes. Yes! Of course he did," screamed Lauren. "When you go out with a guy a few times, that's what happens, right?"

Now Mark felt nauseated. She was right—but it was still hideous hearing the words from her mouth.

"Holy fuck. That's just great. And that doesn't seem weird to you," yelled Mark, "that his prize for staring at your tits for months on end is you popping open your bra for him? That doesn't seem like exactly the wrong thing to do given the situation?"

Lauren sat silently, looking out the window.

"What did your girlfriends think about you dating a sexual harasser?"

Lauren took a breath. "I don't think they thought anything about it. I mean, we all thought his boob-watching was funny. But all the women still liked him."

"Fuck. I will never understand women. He must have been fucking amazing-looking."

"Yeah," she said after a moment. "Yeah, he was attractive..."

"See?! That's why I will never understand women. They're such f-ing hypocrites! They say that the behavior you describe is absolutely unacceptable in the office, yet when some hot guy does it, not only is it not unacceptable, it's 'cute,' and apparently, a huge fucking turn-on. I mean, he obviously spent months jacking off to the thought of getting your top off, and then you...that doesn't creep you out?"

"I don't think that's what he was doing—"

"Jesus, do you know anything about guys?" interrupted Mark. "He's probably beating off right now to the thought that he actually, really did get to play with your tits. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? It's all I can do to keep from jacking off whenever -I- see you!"

Mark exhaled. "Anyway, that's just awesome. He stares at your tits all day and as punishment he gets to rub his face in them. What's the penalty for slapping you on the ass and calling you 'sweetheart'? A blow job?"

Lauren stayed silent. For a long while.

"Holy fuck," said Mark. "Holy fuck...you did give him a blow job..."

Lauren was getting madder.

Mark shook his head. "You gave him a blow job..."

Silence.

"If this pervert in your office qualified for a blow job, does that mean that everyone in your office got one?!"

"No!" she screamed.

"Well that's a relief," said Mark, followed by silence.

"Well at least tell me he enjoyed it!" yelled Mark. "Did he have a fucking great time, watching the girl he'd been beating off to sucking his cock?"

Lauren stared out the window for a few seconds before realizing she was fed up.

"It seemed like it," she said.

Her answer was like a punch in the gut. "That's just fucking great," he muttered a few seconds later.

Lauren turned to Mark. "You remember," she said, more pointed than angry, "I was dating Steve the same time I was dating you—"

"This is -that- guy?! We were the two guys you were deciding between? It took you weeks to make that decision! And the other guy was this fucking creep? Me and the boob-watcher, and it took you that long to figure it out?"

Lauren stared out the window while Mark peppered her with questions—"Were you blowing him at work? Fucking him? Did you see him high-fiving the guys in the office at every opportunity?"—and she felt like crying, until she couldn't take it any longer.

"Why do you keep asking questions that you don't want the answer to?!" she screamed.

"I 'don't want the answer?' Why wouldn't I want the answers unless the answers are worse than I could possibly imagine?"

"I just know you're going to be upset—"

"I'm upset already!" he yelled. "And partially because you're obviously hiding shit from me. So go ahead: hit me with it! I'm ready!" Lauren looked out the window for a whole minute before deciding she honestly didn't care anymore.

"Okay," she said in the most measured tone possible. "If that's what you want I'll answer every one of your questions."

She took a deep breath. "To answer your first one: yes, I sucked his dick many, many times at work. And I think he very, very much liked it."

Mark's throat was dry.

"At work...?" he asked, and his voice cracked.

"Yes. Well it's just a lot easier than..."

"Easier than what?"

"...easier than trying to have normal intercourse at work," she said.

Mark sat there, stunned. He had a hard time believing how matter-of-fact she was.

"Ah...," he said, trying to recover. "...very pragmatic and thoughtful of you." Mark couldn't believe he was asking these questions, but he couldn't stop. "How many times did you suck him off at work?"

"A lot, like I said. Whenever he texted me."

"Whenever he texted you?"

"He'd text me when he was alone in his office," she said, then looked him in the eye. "Are you enjoying the answers to your questions?"

He tried to regain his composure. "Yes," he said, "...they're very revealing." But the answers were killing him. Mark still wanted to get under her skin. It was all he had left.

"Was it common knowledge around the office that you were blowing him?"

"No. I mean, I have no idea; I don't think anybody knew."

"Getting back to the 'boob-watching' for a moment...he did really like your tits, correct?"

"He was obsessed with breasts; that's putting it mildly. He very much liked 'playing'"—and she made little air quotes with her hands—"with them, as you call it. I'd tease him about how I always noticed him staring at them in the office, and he'd always get the same sheepish grin, and say that I had the most amazing breasts he'd ever seen, how all the guys in the office talked about them, and how did he ever get so lucky to be the guy that got to...whatever."

She continued. "Whenever he held them I'd hear him say how all the guys in the office would have given anything to be him."

Holy fuck, did Mark want to kill this guy Steve right now.

"How did that make you feel?"

She thought for a second. "It made me feel super turned-on."

"Fucking awesome," Mark replied.

This relationship was pretty close to dissolving entirely; he could tell. This was probably the last actual conversation he'd ever have with her. The only thing he had left to do was make Lauren feel like a complete whore in the process.

"So he could text you whenever he felt like a B.J., and you were, like, his call girl?"

"Um...sure. Fine, call it whatever you want." She was unshakable.

"While you were going down on him, did he ask you if you loved sucking his cock?"

"Yes."

"And what did you say?"

"I would tell him that yes I did. That's what a guy wants to hear, right?"

"So you didn't actually love sucking his dick?"

She paused. "No, I did."

Mark gulped.

"It could be incredibly fun," she said, though it occurred to Mark that he would have been fine if she'd left that last observation out. The last trace of anger was gone from her voice.

"Yeah," she said. "Some guys...they..."

She drifted off while seemingly deciding whether to finish the thought...then came back to life, beginning a new thread in the conversation she'd never have started if she thought she had anything to lose.

"People always talk about being good at giving blow jobs," she said. "But they never talk about being good at receiving them." Mark let that statement sink in for a good five seconds before staring at her like she was senseless.

"What?" he asked. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're saying it's possible to be good at -getting- a blow job?"

She thought it over. "Yeah," she said.

"There's no fucking way. There is no fucking way to be good at getting a blow job. How?"

"You really want me to spell it out for you?" she asked softly.

Mark was now terrified, but nodded anyway.

She was silent for a moment. "I...never mind. Seriously, you don't want to hear—"

"Tell me!" he screamed. "I want to know every god damn thing that is going through your head right now."

"Okay..." Lauren said, and she stammered a bit, searching for the right words. "The guy, um...he...reacts in sort of the right way? Not overly-excited, but not just lying there, either. Not so much of a reaction that it seems like he's never had one before, but just enough to make it feel like you're doing something absolutely incredible to him."

Beside the thought that he might vomit, Mark was incredulous. "That's not how every guy reacts?"

"No!" she said laughing, then composed herself. "No. You'd be surprised."

"And it makes a difference as to how the guy reacts?"

Lauren nodded furiously, with a tiny smirk.

Mark seethed and shook his head. "Never realized you were such a fucking blow job expert," he said.

Lauren stared at him with near-complete contempt. "It's totally unfair of you to insist I answer your questions then treat me like I'm some sort of deviant when I do."

Mark just shook his head and stared out the window.

"I can tell you more!" she said with an angry glee. "There's an amazing dynamic going on," she said, "where there's this ambiguity about who's in control. I mean, sure, the woman is basically servicing the guy for his own pleasure, but you know, the woman has the man in kind of a precarious position! Both of those scenarios are kind of a turn-on. And...some guys know how to work that. Really well."

And now it was, in fact, taking all of Mark's concentration to not throw up.

After thirty seconds of nothing, Mark got the courage to speak again.

"Well, first..." and Mark took a deep breath, "in case you're still wondering, when you're on your knees with a guy's dick in your mouth, he's the one in control. Just sayin'. Thought I'd clear that up for you."

"Second, if I'm reading you properly," he said, his anger increasing, "what you're saying is that Steve was absolutely fantastic at receiving a blow job. Fucking world-class at getting his dick sucked. That's what you're saying, right?"

Lauren gave a little shrug.

Holy fuck.

"I'd say you're overstating things just a bit," she said, after letting him stew. "But I'm just answering your questions."

"I know you're trying to make me feel guilty," she continued. "I don't. I liked sleeping with him. I liked that he was obsessed with my body. And you knew I was seeing him at the same time I was seeing you...that wasn't a secret. Since I'm sure you're not enjoying hearing any of this from me, I don't know what you're trying to prove here."

"And for all I know," she said, "you were fooling around with other girls during that first part of our relationship when we were allowed to see other people."

"But I wasn't!"

"That's not my fault."

Mark no longer had any idea what he was trying to prove either. He was just looking for that one little angle that would prove he was right to be freaked out and that she was wrong to think that there was anything normal about her dating this guy.

"Do you think it's easy for me to listen to this shit?!" he asked.

"No. But you don't have to listen to it! Just stop asking these stupid questions and stop insisting that I answer them!"

But he wasn't going to stop.

"He has a really nice cock?"

"Yes."

"Nicer than mine?"

"Yes."

"Well why do you go out with me then?"

"You're funnier. I have a better time with you. At least I used to."

"Have you ever imagined I'm him when we're together?"

"Yes."

"When?"

She took a breath. "Sometimes when I'm going down on you."

And that was the last question he asked. And those were the last words shared between them until arriving at Heather's house six minutes later.

—

Lauren rang the doorbell and the two stood on the front porch stoically until some drunken guest opened the door. Lauren bolted for the kitchen, leaving Mark alone in the entryway. All the way at the back of the house, Mark saw Heather, the birthday girl. The girl whose tits had started this whole fiasco.

"Steve!" she shouted to a tall guy standing not far away.

Mark's heart sank. That was him, the boob-watcher. Steve.

He was taller than Mark expected—maybe 6' 2" or 6' 3"? Not as good-looking as Mark had pictured, though. Mark couldn't decide whether that made him feel better or worse.

He kept his eye on Steve as the birthday girl gave him a big hug. Holy fuck, Heather was the one who'd called him out on the boob-watching thing, and now he's at her birthday party?

For the moment at least, the boob-watcher wasn't staring at her breasts; maybe he'd gotten over that particular affliction. Or just gotten stealthier. Mark stared at the guy's hands. It was hard not to picture those hands deftly working the fastener on Lauren's bra, then gliding around the curves of her astonishing breasts, and—since Mark was in the frame of mind to work himself into a jealous rage—a look of complete ecstasy on Lauren's face. Then, after a night of her happily sucking his enormous cock like there was no tomorrow and getting her brains fucked out, Mark pictured the boob-watcher sitting with his buddies at work and describing every second of the experience while they sat slack-jawed, in awe that he could on a whim command the hottest associate in the office to gleefully slide his dick into her lovely mouth—

Ugh. Jesus Christ. Could Mark make himself feel any worse?

He was going to try.

Despite the fact that every other girl at the party apparently loved talking to the boob-watcher, Lauren still seemed to be avoiding him. Was that because she really didn't want to see him? Or—getting paranoid again—maybe she avoided the boob-watcher because she really -did- want to see him? Maybe tonight—maybe because of the fight she and Mark were having—she now wanted to suck his cock more than ever? Oh god.

Of course, Lauren wasn't speaking to Mark either. Or was it that he wasn't speaking to her? He wasn't sure which of them was taking the stand against talking with the other. Instead, he spent the time bouncing between introductions to partners in Lauren's firm, and Sherrie, an admin he'd met at another office party.

He wanted to somehow bring the boob-watcher up in the conversation with Sherrie but the thought made him queasy. God, what if Sherrie liked him too? Then he'd feel even worse. What if she wanted to blow him? What if she already had? Holy fuck, had Steve's cock been in the mouth of every girl at this party?

(Just how fucking paranoid could Mark make himself, he wondered?)

Sherrie didn't bring up Steve. Maybe she knew he'd be a touchy subject with Mark, since, you know, Lauren had been... Fuck, did everyone in this room know that his girlfriend loved sucking this guy's dick?

Mark looked back to the corner where Steve stood.

Fuck.

Lauren was talking to him. Fuck.

Tonight of all nights, did Lauren really have to wear such a low-cut top? Holy shit: is he why she wore the low-cut top?

Mark guessed the boob-watcher would dive right in to her cleavage at any moment. That's what he wanted, right?

Lauren giggled. Then a hair flip. At the rate Steve was going he'd have her blouse off in no time.

Mark had to look away, and considering he'd just finished his third beer, he had no choice but to bolt to the upstairs bathroom. After what was, at Mark's reckoning, the longest piss of his lifetime—a solid sixty seconds, possibly more—an object on the window sill caught his attention.

An iPhone.

"Steve Halpern," it said, after he unlocked it.

Holy shit. This was his phone. The boob-watcher's phone.

Against his better judgment Mark launched the text message app. He could see that there were messages from Lauren on his phone.

Not recent messages. But all of Steve and Lauren's old conversations—from when they were a legitimate item—were still definitely there.

"my office?" said Steve in one of the early messages.

"cant. phone conference," she'd replied.

"they don't need you in there. Ditch and get over here."

"youre bad"

"you like that I'm bad," he replied. "repeat yesterday?"

"mmmm would love to. cant."

"so disappointed! youre so very very good at...u know, that thing you do. the best."

"(blushing) its my pleasure" she said.

"but i guess you have work to do," he continued. "guess i'll just sit here with this unbelievably huge hardon and sulk"

"dont say that...you're torturing me" she replied.

"good i like torturing you. you could always relieve your frustration with Jacobs. he's there, right? he probably needs one more than i do."

"ha ha" she texted.

"what not a benefit you extend to senior partners?"