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The Curious Case Of Randy (Part 2)

Wednesday, September 24, 2008 1:36 PM - By Hope Winters

randy yellow hat.jpg[Ed Note: Yesterday we learned that Hope’s partner pal, Randy, was taking testosterone pills to treat his “lactating man-boobs.” Today we learn about the downside of hormonal supplements.]

“Testosterone pills? Like, how many do you have to take?”

“Well, right now three. One with every meal.”

I wanted to end this conversation and finish the bloody filing so I could go out and get wasted.

“Well, I hope it helps and you feel better soon!” I gathered my papers and stared at my laptop.

“Well, my chest isn’t hurting as much, but there’s this other problem.”

Good Lord.

“What?”

“Well…” Randy leaned forward and whispered, “I can’t stop thinking about sex. I’m like obsessed with it. I can’t do my work. It’s all I think about — I feel like I’ve turned into a teenage boy again.”

Okay, this is weird. Really weird. And, weird is what I sought to escape. I found myself longing for the hairy armpits, unbuckled trousers, and pool parties back at Pants Down.

“I mean… I can’t even go to lunch in public without staring at every girl that walks by.”

This proved to be true. I later witnessed this at a lunch with some summer associates. Each time a remotely attractive girl walked by, his neck moved more rapidly than the ducks I fed stale bread to at our lake house. Clearly he was hungry — and not shy.

“Well, I really think you need to talk to your doctor about this. Maybe they can lower the medication.”

“Well, he has lowered it. Still. All I think about its sex! Even my wife is sick of me — I want it like three times a day.” My mind flashed back to the photo of the blond trophy wife on his desk. Please. She probably doesn’t even want to do it with him three times a year.

“I’m really sorry about your problem. But, I do have to get this filing done in an hour.”

I get him out of my office — and fast. I mean, what does he want me to do here? Service him? Well, he can try the self-service island. I wanted to tell him to go whack off and leave me alone.

Hope tries to finish the task at hand, after the jump.

I finish the filing, but I really can’t concentrate anymore. I have to tell someone. I can only trust Jessica. I call her at home.

“You are never going to believe this, Jess. What Randy did….”

“Oh, God. I knew it. What did he do now? He totally wants in your knickers. Hold on.”

“Hey Jack, come here. We have a Randy story. Hope, I’m putting you on speaker so Jack can hear.” Her husband Jack joined the call.

I began to tell her every detail of the story. I couldn’t trust anyone with this.

bertolucci.JPG“This is outrageous!” her husband exclaimed. “You have a lawsuit on your hands, Hope. You should go to Bertolucci with this.” (Bertolucci was the midget Mafia-esque managing partner, as well as a squash buddy of Randy’s.).

“I can’t. No one will believe me. Plus, I don’t want to get him fired or anything.”

“You should. Go get yourself a big fat settlement, Hope.”

Years later, I will ask myself exactly why I did not do that. But I was only 26 — young and naïve and aiming to please.

The story doesn’t end here. As I was turning 27, a tad bit older and wiser, Randy pulled another stunt. This time — a smoking gun.

STAY TUNED…

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Posted in: Breasts, Romance and Dating, Sex, Sexual Harassment, Weirdness

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