“I coordinated the international distribution of about 1,000 cock shots”
Working any nine-to-five entry level office job in midtown Manhattan (ten to six, in my case) presents a varied if predictable set of challenges: the subway, other people, dawdling tourists, foul odors of both known and mysterious origin, dead rats, skyscrapers that block the sun, harsh air conditioning, terrible yet irresistible break room coffee, irrational, micromanaging bosses, and the like.
So you devise coping strategies. You invent silly life stories for the people you see on the train every day; you maintain epistolary relationships with your friends who are similarly bound to desks; you take long walks during your lunch breaks to find any surprises that might still be hiding in such a sterile and uninviting neighborhood. And you get on with it. There are forces in this world, however, for which I have no natural defence.
For three years I worked as an assistant at an erotic photographer’s archive which, despite how it sounds, was a typical office job. Without going into the saucy details, I coordinated the international distribution of about 1,000 cock shots. Outside of work I was often introduced as “my friend who administrates gay porn,” a moniker I learned to embrace. But I didn’t work in gay porn. These photographs were in fact considered “high art” by the institutions that determine such things so, nominally at least, I was doing well by my degree in art history. I even got to indulge in the New York art world’s after hours displays of pseudo-intellectual vanity, in its sombre parade of champagne parties and benefit dinners. What a drag.
I entered the job thinking I would be able to cope well enough with this sort of thing. I’m an adult, I’d tell myself. Not only am I an adult I’m a student of art. I’ve seen Carolee Schneeman pull a scroll out of her vagina. What’s a naked man being dragged across a dungeon by his nipple ring to me? As time went on though, I had to accept that I was losing the war of attrition against the penis army.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t object to erotica or pornography. I consider myself sex-positive. But I am the puritan my foremothers made me and, as a puritan, there are only so many times I can look at a man’s bloodied genitals or two fists entering a sudsy anus. My day job began to take a toll on my inner life. I saw phalluses everywhere I looked: on coffee tables, at fruit stands, in the clouds. The very thought of a penis began to fill me with a seething repulsion. And soon enough came along the cock that broke this poor puritan’s back.
From the window above the copy machine I could see into all of the offices in the adjacent building and, needless to say, much of my day was spent making photocopies. There was one character who had consistently caught my eye. He wore an olive green trench coat and a faded white fedora. He appeared to be at least middle aged, though I had never seen his face. I had, however, watched him watch an astonishing amount of actual porn. He would jump from video to video and, when inspiration apparently never struck, he would start up a game of solitaire. He performed this anti-mating ritual at least three times a week and, according to my colleagues, this had been going on since long before I started working there.
One day, while I was making photocopies of some useless document, the man was seated at his desk watching porn as usual. I had a three-quarter view of him, though I still could not see his face. I was waiting for him to open the green solitaire screen, to remind me that there are things in life you can always count on. Suddenly I saw something I never asked for: the pink tip of his sad little penis peeking out from under his desk. Inspiration had finally struck. Why? I asked myself. Why me? Haven’t I had enough cock for one day? And why don’t I just look away? Why am I calling all of my coworkers over? Why are we all standing here watching this wretched display of humanity? Or am I unfairly judging this man? Am I really any better? As his arm flailed wildly under the desk, we watched together yet alone, suspended between fascination and revulsion, shock and depression.
It ended as suddenly as it began. He grabbed a tissue and gingerly wiped away the evidence. He then appeared to untie a black string from around his penis and, sure enough, started up a game of solitaire. I finally turned away, horrified and a little bit sadder.
The masturbation became a frequent occurrence after that and I always watched. I couldn’t stop wondering how I had gotten to this place in my life. By day I was a peeping-tom office drone watching strangers masturbate, both live and recorded, and by night an increasingly annoyed socialite who could no longer stand the sight of male genitalia, an awkward position for a heterosexual woman to be in. When it all came to a head (pun intended) not only did I leave that job, I left the country. One day I’ll go back, but I’ll never be the same.
By Jemima Craig
- Do you have a tale from your ‘Daily Grind’? Email us at occupiedtimes@gmail.com with your absurd and hilarious stories from the world of working life.