SEEING IS BELIEVING

Molly is a blonde, heavy-boned girl with very pretty blue eyes. She is my colleague and seems to have the hots for black men, seeing as she is mostly friendly with the black male staff, Yours Truly inclusive.

On several occasions in the past, she’d made sexual comments to me, been excessively nice and played extremely explicit sexual-content dance-hall songs for me. Obviously she was passing on a message to me, but I always played dumb because, well, she’s got boobs and no dick. However, to the entire office, we seemed like we had something going on, because the rumour mill was chugging with talk about us. We were often seen in each other’s company, and since we were two single, good looking people, everyone else simply let their imaginations run wild.

One day recently, I noticed Molly hadn’t been to work for awhile. This was the same for another colleague, a guy named Ken. I asked around and was informed that Molly and Ken had been suspended because Molly claimed sexual harassment.

The first time I was told this, I was bewildered. I mean, who would – could – sexually harass the perpetually horny Molly?

One morning thereafter, I came to work and I received a note asking me over to my supervisor’s office for a confidential meeting. At first I was nervous because I didn’t understand why I’d be having confidential meetings with my boss. I had to make a visible effort to relax and wait calmly for the set time.

When I got to my supervisor’s office, the woman who is usually pleasant and friendly suddenly seemed like a Nazi officer. No smile offered. No warmth to her countenance. That was seriously alarming.

The moment the door was shut behind me, she sat across from me and began talking.

She started with what she called my suspicious friendship with Molly and went on to insinuations that I’d been carrying on a romantic affair with Molly and how it was against work ethics. She was grim-faced as she talked, and the situation was starting to look pretty bad. I knew that from an outsider’s view, she was spot-on and she may very well recommend me for disciplinary recourse.

I let her finish, which was a remarkable feat. Inside me, I was boiling from the plenty rubbish that was assaulting my hearing, but managed to stay calm.

“So what do you have to say for yourself?” she finally said crisply.

I opted for an abrupt response. My first words were: “Ma’am, I’m not into women. Even if I were, Molly wouldn’t be my type.”

Now my director looked startled. Her brows creased in confusion as she tilted her head slightly sideways. She squinted her eyes and pursed her mouth at once in the way a woman would do when she is ransacking through the archive labeled with your name in the library of her mind.

She began falteringly, “But you don’t look gay or act…”

Before she could complete her remark, and driven by gumption I usually kept in reserve, I crossed my legs right there in my seat, Sharon Stone style, flipped my imaginary knee-length weave, and arched a brow complete with an ‘Mmhmm, your eyes ain’t deceiving you, hunnay’ pout.

“Jesus! No way!” she blurted, her eyes goggling into an expression of shock that was almost comical.

Smiling arching, I raised my nails to inspect them and blow on them. Then I cooed, “Honey, nothing is what it seems.”

And on that note, the meeting ended.

Written by Joe Alex