Business Notworking

Third Tuesday Vancouver by Darren BarefootI went to a networking event last night. It was the type of thing people go to feel like their “connected” and relevant” in “the community.” They do this by talking about themselves, what they or their employer has been up to (and how they’ve been a part of it), and all the other rumors or “trends” they’ve read about lately in “industry publications” or blogs.

I’ve been to plenty of these. Hell, I used to help organize one. But I kicked the habit in favor of finding something to do with my time that maybe, just maybe, Jesus wouldn’t hold against me (come December 21st, 2012).

Since I just had my review at work, though, I figured it was time that I got back into the “groove of things.” I figured that it was a good way to show “just how much of an asset I was to the company/team/department.” In fact, I came up with it when I saw the review coming. But I digress

I showed up at this “event” with a friend of mine. He works in local politics, and I told him that it’d be worth his time because there’d be plenty of local “businessman” and bloggers he could network with.

We spent most of the time standing off to the side, talking between ourselves. He pointed out the “frizzy hair,” mocha-complexioned mulatto girl on the other side of the room. She was an old boss of mine who’d fired me two months into a gig two years ago.

I’d been working on a two-month “contract” at a locally-based multi-national. The “contract” was their way of saying “we’ll keep you on indefinitely so long as you don’t fuck or piss off anyone of influence.” I did both.

I had a sex & dating blog at the time, and I blogged about how during a meeting, I daydreamed about getting blow jobs from an assorted array of my female cohorts. Long story short, they found it.

They didn’t tell me, though, so I thought I got canned for being lazy. It wasn’t until months later when Frizzy confronted me over instant messenger that I found out what had happened. Apparently, she’d found her part in it amusing:

Then there’s the local editor, a strong-headed, intelligent woman with curls that you just want to grab, pull, and tug at. She wouldn’t suck cock because shse liked it or wanted to, but because it would be appropriate for the time and place. It would be what the situation called for: standard operating procedure, plain and simple. She’d be thorough and efficient, arguably pneumatic, and she wouldn’t look up to make eye-contact once. It’d be cold and impersonal, and when she was done, I’d be left feeling used and empty, in a gratifying way. I’d ask for more, and she’d just sneer. Then I’d say please and she’d snicker. Then I’d cry.

I wish I’d said hi to her before leaving. Any girl who can shrug off something like that is someone worth knowing once you get through your first divorce.

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