Breasts, Romance and Dating, Sex, Sexual Harassment, Weirdness

The Curious Case Of Randy (Part 2)

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[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.

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“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.

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“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.

“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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