Chapter 3

Of all the secretaries in that office, there was only one who didn’t remind me of a hooker or a washed-up porn actress – her name was Katya. Not that her tits were any smaller. Hell, if anything, they were bigger – each one about the size of a human head.

But even if you could somehow look past those monumental breasts (which, frankly, was impossible), there was something magnetic about her. I think I would’ve liked her even without those big boobs. Besides, Katya was one of the few who didn’t treat me like office furniture.

I helped her with computer stuff a lot – Word, Excel, you name it. And not just that. Part of me felt sorry for her. The boss dumped so much work on her that she lived in a state of constant emergency. But let’s be honest – pity wasn’t the real reason I hung around her. I just liked being near her. I’d once heard that impotent men are supposed to be bitter freaks who hate women. Back then I was still impotent, but I never stopped admiring Katya. And of course, I loved looking at her enormous breasts. That was, honestly, the best part of working at GazMyas.

One day she came over and said: “Anton, do you need any office supplies?” “What kind of supplies?” I asked. “Come with me, pick for yourself.” We went into the storage room. She unlocked the door with her key and, once we were inside, locked it again. Boxes of brochures, corporate calendars, piles of pens, folders – the usual junk.

I grabbed a couple of notebooks and turned back to her.

“That’s it?” she asked. “Yeah.” “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

“Pretty sure.” “Nothing else you want?” She stepped close. So close her nipples pressed against my stomach. “Uh ... you mean office supplies or something else?” Instead of answering, she took my hands and placed them on her ass. We started kissing like we’d been starving for it.

And then I finally did what I’d been dreaming about for months – moved one hand, then the other, up to her chest. Still kissing, I squeezed those incredible breasts like they were the last real thing left in the world. It wasn’t just about groping a beautiful woman in a storage room – there had to be a kind of romance to it, a sense of foreplay before the storm. Any minute now she’d realize I couldn’t get it up – so I had to make the most of it while I could. I unbuttoned her blouse and pushed up her bra, just to feel her skin.

Then her phone rang. She answered, listened for a few seconds, said, “I’m coming,” and put it back down. Then she reached for me. Miraculously, I had a half-decent erection – not great, but enough to look respectable. Maybe I could blame the rest on nerves. Suddenly she knelt, kissed the tip of it, then stood right back up. “So,” she said playfully, “now you can brag that I went down on you. I’ll confirm if anyone asks.” “I’m not gonna brag,” I said. “What do you take me for?” “Good answer, student,” she smiled. “You’ve got a nice dick, by the way. And you kiss really well. Sorry, I gotta run – urgent stuff! See you around.”

And we did see each other – in the hallway, the reception area, the kitchen ... everywhere but the storage room. I didn’t ask, she didn’t offer. Maybe she was waiting for me to finally invite her out – or to ask for more office supplies. Sometimes I’d catch her giving me that puzzled look – like, well, when’s it gonna happen, genius? I didn’t know. Maybe never.

That night, I lay in bed trying to relieve the unbearable tension – not in my dick, but in my head. I used one of her photos from the corporate directory as visual aid – the one where she’s in a business suit, the outline of her chest visible beneath the fabric. My dick stayed dead. Twenty minutes later I still couldn’t finish. Why the hell couldn’t I just get myself off? God, if only I could afford another session with the Shoemaker Girl ... but one hundred and fifty thousand rubles! Jesus Christ. Sure, I could find a cheap hooker to peg me for five, but she’d look like a swamp goblin.

After Katya, that just wouldn’t do.

I set the phone aside and opened some porn – the kind with muscular guys pounding moaning women senseless. Didn’t help. Made it worse. Lust turned into rage, self-loathing, envy toward every man who could still function like one. What if it never comes back? I thought. What if I never get it up again? Then what – no wife, no kids, no family? Just me, rotting alone in the dark. I don’t know how it goes for other impotent men, but the thought hit me hard that night: If I stay like this forever, what’s the point of trying to achieve anything? What’s the point of anything at all? And then, another thought – darker, quieter: If I suffer this much from not having sex, but can’t do it with a woman ... maybe I should try it with a man? If I enjoyed that strap-on session with the Shoemaker Girl so much – maybe being with a guy wouldn’t be worse?

I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about it before. The idea of bending over for some “active” guy and saving a pile of money on those role-reversal prostitutes had crossed my mind. Back then it was just an abstract fantasy, the kind of dirty joke your brain throws at you when you’re alone too long. But this time, I was seriously considering it.

I knew gay men found me attractive – I could easily get one if I wanted. But then, aside from the obvious ... I’d also have to do oral stuff, right? If I wanted a steady partner – healthy, sane, not some random freak – then yeah, sooner or later, I’d have to suck. That’s just how relationships work. The real question was – could I handle that? You’ll never know until you try, I told myself. I had to find out how disgusting it would actually feel. So I went on the first gay dating site I could find and posted an ad: “Hey everyone. I’m a regular guy – height, weight, age, location, all listed. No gay experience. No place to host. Really want to try giving a blowjob, but only with a condom. I know this probably won’t interest anyone, but if there’s someone out there – write me. I’ll do my best to make it enjoyable. Email: [redacted].”