#Jerk
Authors: Kat T. Masen
Copyright © 2015 Kat T. Masen
All rights reserved.
Edited by Michelle Josette:
Formatted by Sassie Lewis
Cover design by Clarissa Yeo:
T
he dictionary defines a jerk as
a contemptibly foolish person.
That’s being
nice
.
And nice wasn’t something I did.
Give me something in return and
maybe,
I can play nice. Like the time I sucked up to get that promotion with that made-up title, or when I befriended the local stoner and got an extra stash of weed. And we can’t forget about last night with the promise of some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turned out to be.
I got what I wanted because I didn’t give a damn.
About anyone or anything.
I just wanted to have fun, but even then, that game was
fast
becoming old.
I was bored and needed a new challenge. Something to keep me occupied. And one day, it all just fell into place (by accident of course).
Our office was one giant playground. I dubbed myself the school bully and the ice queen was my target. It’s her own fault though; I’d never met a woman so fucking uptight you would need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.
It was one juicy
ass
though. Perky, with that round bounce that you just know would make a terrific sound when you slapped it with your palm.
But that was beside the point.
Way beside the point.
I didn’t like her stubbornness. Nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and in order. I loathed the way she would answer every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. And that ridiculous skirt she always wore that made her look like a schoolgirl (alright, perhaps there were benefits to that skirt if you pictured her in eight-inch heels and a pair of garter belts peeking through) was not appropriate office attire.
What irked me most was the way she would parade ‘round the office with her nose stuck up in the air. Miss I’m-Too-Good-for-All-You-Juveniles-so-I’m-Going-to-Act-Like-a-Fucking-Grandma.
Yeah, she thought she was fucking all that. I didn’t like bitches like that, especially when they paraded that ring on their finger like some fucking accomplishment. The guy probably gave it to her ‘cause he had a small dick and couldn’t get any better.
Yeah, well you’ve got a big dick and probably could teach her a lesson or two.
Then it happened—the day that ring no longer taunted me.
The day the office gossip went into overdrive because Presley Malone was back to being single. The ice queen didn’t even look sad. I don’t even think she shed a tear and I’m thinking Mr. Small Dick probably found some less-frigid pussy elsewhere and jumped ship. But a victory for every goddamn cock and balls in the office that went ape-shit fighting over who could get her in bed first.
It was exactly the challenge I needed.
And I didn’t intend to play
nice.
Nice was for chumps. I pulled pigtails and lifted skirts.
No lie
.
It wasn’t payback, and it wasn’t vindictive.
It was clean, harmless fun.
Fuck that…it was
dirty
fun.
There was only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I existed; I had to make her life in the office a living hell. Push all the right fucking buttons.
According to her, if it walks like a jerk, and talks like a jerk, then
I am
a jerk.
But I understood the meaning of ‘jerk’ a little differently. To be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy, only to give her false hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.
F
rom a very early age I knew I was different from the rest of the kids I hung around with. I may have only been seven years old, but my mother wasn’t shy of telling me that I was an old soul with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. I didn’t consider it a bad thing; my Grammy was the most awesome lady that ever existed, next to my mother of course.
It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to rock my world was the newly released Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie. I can still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace, fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center spot.
My mother would often complain, “Presley, why don’t you play with your dolls like other girls?” Well dear mother, other girls had Barbies with god-awful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.
I had to have everything
perfect.
So you can imagine my horror when I arrived at school the next day and every girl with their new Peaches ‘n Cream doll had short-cut bobs, mismatched shoes and zero rings. I decided then and there that my Barbie deserved the best. So I planned the most epic wedding event of all time.
Barbie was finally going to marry Ken.
I invited all my friends, and under the big oak tree in my backyard, they tied the knot on that sunny September day. The guests oohed and aahed. I overheard my friends commenting on how pristine my Barbie looked, ‘fresh out of the box’, and then there was the groom. Ken looked ravishing with his light grey suit and pink pocket square to accentuate his tanned skin and plastic comb-over.
The thrill and excitement of this perfect day was forever engrained in my memory, and at the ripe old age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to get married to my Mr. Right and live in our double-story dream house.
I had a plan.
The problem with plans is, the second they fall apart, you have absolutely no idea how to cope.
Fast-forward twenty years, I was certain that Mr. Right just sat at my table. His name was Jason Hart, tall, handsome, with the deepest blue eyes—if you stared long enough it was like staring into the ocean.
We met at a mutual friend’s wedding, thrown together onto the shameful singles’ table in the back corner of the ballroom. All we needed was a neon sign flashing “sad and pathetic single people looking for a good time”.
This time, however, the party was at our table. It was a fun group—we were all in our mid-twenties, looking to get plastered on some free booze. Jason was seated directly opposite from me and it was impossible to ignore his flirtatious smile. My ovaries were having a celebration, the party was on, drinks were served and damn, we would make very cute babies together.
Lucky for me, Jason turned out to be the sweetest guy you could possibly ask for. It was the perfect story to pass onto our grandkids. Met at a wedding, love at first sight, and who could forget the moment I caught the bouquet? Okay, so maybe I was pushing fate. You know, by stepping on another woman’s foot to dive for the bouquet. Bouquet catching should be declared a sport; it’s every woman for herself out there!
The moment Jason grabbed my hand and asked me to dance, I thought,
Yes, he is Mr. Right. He is my Ken, minus the plastic comb-over of course, and together, we could live happily ever after in our dream house.
We went through the relationship milestones, moving in together after a year, joining our bank accounts in an effort to save for our first apartment, and last year on our fifth anniversary, he popped the big question and obviously…I said
yes!
My parents loved him, his parents loved me. It was just one perfect moment after another, and to curb my OCD (which had intensified over the years), it was all going according to plan. Until the day I had lunch with my mother and mother-in-law.
Hours were spent going through magazines, interviewing wedding coordinators, immersing ourselves in various fabrics, and all the while, alarm bells were ringing in my head. Miss Plan-Out-Her-Whole-Life had absolutely no clue what she wanted. Every magazine page that was thrown in front of me showed a blushing bride staring lovingly into her groom’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time Jason and I looked at each other with such love. We were comfortable.
But
c
omfortable wasn’t perfect
. I loved him, it was impossible not to love him, but there was this tiny bug crawling within my gut telling me something wasn’t right. I prayed every night that this mysterious bug would grow into a beautiful butterfly and remind me what we were all about.
Yeah, that butterfly never showed up, and that damn bug had sunken its teeth in even further.
We both got stuck in this routine. Working till late, ordering take-out almost every night, sex on Fridays, and the Saturday trip to the Laundromat. The spark that had ignited that day at the wedding had died down to a dwindling fire.
I craved
more
. Not sure of what that was, I tried spicing things up by cooking some nights in, a quick rendezvous to the Hamptons for Valentine’s Day—and maybe I should have fought harder for us, but we both agreed our perfect relationship had run its course.
“I just don’t think it’s working out, Jase. It’s just…I can’t explain it,” I spoke solemnly.
Sitting on our sofa dressed in a neatly pressed tux (having just returned from a wedding), he leaned back and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to cry. This shouldn’t be about emotions. Rather, it should be a rational decision between two adults.
“Are we doing the right thing, Jase?”
His voice croaked, but quick to compose himself, he smiled and (as always) managed to say the right words.
“We are just so comfortable. I didn’t…never mind.”
“No, tell me, you didn’t what?”
He hesitated at first, then opened up, attempting to relay his emotions. “I didn’t think we would fall into this rut so quickly. You hear all the time that couples get married and the relationship becomes a routine.”
Remaining quiet, I gave myself a moment to get my words right. “You expect raw and wild sex at random moments, dinners at fancy restaurants, making out at the movies, but it’s not like that.”
He chuckled heartily. “Presley Malone, I will sure miss your ways. I’m hoping the next relationship I have won’t shoot me for placing my black socks in the same row as my white.”
Ouch, that stung a
little
.
Brush it off, you wanted this. Yes, you loved him dearly, you’re just not
in
love with him anymore. You knew it wasn’t right, you knew you wanted more
.
More
what
though?
“But this is so calm. Aren’t breakups supposed to be full of tears and throwing bags of clothes out the window?” I asked.
“Yeah, maybe, but we’re beyond that. I’ll always love you, Pres. But this…this is the best for us. We owe it to each other,” he reaffirmed.
He was right. We had given each other five great memorable years. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to have shared that with, and now we both needed to see what else is out there in the world.
I wasn’t sure if it was proper breakup protocol to hug it out, but I leaned in anyway, and for the very last time I held on to Jason. His embrace was warm and familiar, and I knew that no matter what happens to me, wherever I go or whatever I do, I had a friend in Jason Hart.
We called off the wedding and parted ways.
Single. Again. At thirty-fucking-two.
Marriage, three kids, and that damn dream house just flew out the window.
What terrified me most was that maybe it wasn’t in the grand plan for Presley Malone. Maybe fate and the universe got together and said, “Hey, Miss Plan-It-Out needs to be taught a lesson in life. Let’s screw her sideways and see how she copes.”
The problem wasn’t fate or the universe—it was the biggest jerk of all time.
And unfortunately, now, I was bound to him.
Forever.