Something Different

Chapter 1

None of it would have happened if Germanotti hadn’t told Michael Maguire he didn’t know the meaning of the phrase “fuck it.”

“I do know the meaning of that phrase,” Michael said, trying not to sound annoyed.  What was it about him that made people assume he spent all his spare time cutting the grass, repairing the gutters and waxing the mini-van?

He glanced at the cola he’d nursed for the last half-hour.  No matter the occasion, Michael was always the designated driver.  Always fated to drive loud-mouthed pissers home while they shouted out his mini-van’s windows like football hooligans.  Then the next workday, before the staff meeting, they would claim all sorts of outlandish adventures.  Michael was honest.  He never denied where he went after each Friday night at the corner gastro-pub.  He went home, apologizing to Frannie if he stayed out past one o’clock, the limit she had set.  After admitting as much, Michael had to endure his colleagues’ teasing and listen to their stories: teenage Lolitas coming on to them in nightclubs, anonymous three-ways with kinky college girls, hookers dealing out freebies.  It was all pure fantasy.  True, Germanotti had talked one of the company’s interns into having sex with him in the stockroom.  But afterward she’d avoided him altogether, going so far as to take the stairs if Germanotti was in line for the elevator.  If those were the wages of workplace sin, Michael wanted none of it.  If he ever found himself in the market for uncomfortable silences and angry stares, he could always go home.

Now Germanotti gave Michael a slack-lipped, moist grin.  “I do know the meaning of the phrase,” he mimicked.  “But I’m Michael Maguire, I have a stick up my ass and a sad little scar where my bollocks used to be, so you’ll never hear those words cross my lips.”

Michael gave a low chuckle.  Germanotti was crude, frequently deluded and terrified of his own wife, whom he pretended to rule with an iron hand.  He was constantly on notice for poor work performance and would have been sacked years ago, except Michael kept covering for him.  Yet Michael liked Germanotti.  For whatever reason, the man was convinced Michael had it in him to someday step out of line.

“I mean really,” Germanotti continued, finishing his pint.  “Are you so in love with sweet Frannie you’ve never been tempted?  Never wanted to find a little bird and give your cock a go?”

The question was absurd.  The answer, of course, was every single day, when he woke up with an erection and headed into the shower to masturbate.  Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex with Frannie, and there were so many rules he was no longer tempted to try.  Weeknights were out, she was too tired from housework and spin class and book club and keeping up with her favorite programs on telly.  Sundays were a no-go; she tended to go out with girlfriends after church and preferred a nice long evening with the telly when she returned.  That left Saturday, and then Michael had to be freshly showered, the kids had to be either asleep or out of the house, and Frannie had to be in the mood.  The likelihood of all these factors coming together was about as favorable as a total eclipse.  Once Michael had thought that as he grew older he’d get “past it,” as men used to say, and find himself as disinterested as Frannie.  But now he was thirty-four and more frustrated than ever.  Frannie wouldn’t even let him hold her and masturbate, she found the very idea juvenile and borderline deviant.  And the kids were always on the computer – the first time he’d downloaded a bit of soft-focus pornography, his son had found it straightaway, been blamed by Frannie (Michael still felt guilty about not coming clean) and grounded for a month.  So the only safe place for Michael to seek release was in the shower.

As for wanting to “find a little bird” and giving his “cock a go…”  Well.  Yes and yes.  Germanotti was always going on about blondes with large breasts, but Michael didn’t even know what his type was.  Friendly, nice smile, nice eyes, all those would be good.  Surely prostitutes – did they employ that term, or might they consider it offensive? – would be patient and not expect too much…