Sleeping With A Coworker

I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: I acquired myself into this mess. I was the main one who decided to grab and move to NY with $400 in my own bank-account, I was the main one who spent a day on Craigslist which ultimately resulted in my uncovering of the too good to be true” job, I was the main one who was simply wooed by the promise of $12 one hour, free cupcakes, and the draw to be the only real male in an organization filled with beautiful women. It had been my fault, I’ll admit that.
It was this type of hot damn summer when I first moved to Brooklyn and every bead of sweat that came off my forehead and evaporated on the floor appeared to carry with everything my memories from Boston. I wasn’t a fresh Yorker, but a fresh York transplant, which gave me free rein to be as reckless when i damn pleased. My room was a first-level box with a mattress on to the floor and a far-off promise of flies, mice, and scabies.
I had escaped a poisonous relationship and was prepared to firmly plant my feet back to the truth I had previously sublet care of a delusional girlfriend. I’ve always believed in quelling the yearning for artistic freedom with trusted old fashioned retail, as a good artist spends his or her days in drenched in misery and/or sweat.
The cupcake shop situated in Times Square promised both. I got the job because I assume someone had told the owners that it’s slightly illegal to staff a business solely with blonde white women under 110 pounds and I was just diverse enough – or, at least diverse enough-looking – to break up the homogeneity.
We all thought the place was a drug front – there’s no way a business built on mediocre bite-sized stuffed cupcakes can flourish the way this place did. The owner was a cold woman who constantly asserted her worldly knowledge and love of marijuana.
She pretended that we all liked her and we pretended it wasn’t her inherited family wealth that kept the business going. With a lush pack of friends who’d have happily killed anyone in the path to fame and fortune, every celebrity party and artist opening in New York had some semblance of a cupcake presence in it. How many damn cupcakes were made in vain to improve the credentials of a gallery opening or hapless PR event? EASILY could have spelt the term useless” with bite-sized stuffed cupcakes, I’d have.
The cupcakes spread like toxic weeds around New York City, each populous city block growing cupcake-sized pimples on unsuspecting corners. My job was not difficult: take orders, box cupcakes, hand boxes off to cashiers, rinse, repeat. Because the only guy on the working job, I noticed every female coworker plus they noticed me back. Simple work-appropriate chatter turned into flirtatious texts, aimless dates, drunken trysts, rinse, repeat.
At the cupcake store, I wasn’t myself, but rather a phony version of myself that mirrored the my surroundings. I wasn’t Jeremy, but more along the lines of New York-style Jeremy to go along with the New York-style bagels and dollar slices that went into my otherwise frosting-coated stomach every day.
As the days stretched into weeks, I felt the artistic freedom I was trying to preserve so badly fall to the wayside in place of the inanity that is retail drama. This person didn’t like that person, this girl didn’t close properly, that girl got a written warning for doing something. Every time I felt myself falling out, something would pull me back in.
The first was a girl I’ll call Laurie. She greeted me my second day by asking me if I was gay , to which I responded: nope” and the magic continued from there. We started texting, or rather, I began incessantly texting her. From the texts, I convinced her to go out on a date with me, which ended in a kiss by her on my head. We began a confusing, albeit adorable, relationship in which we’d write each other letters – me in Bushwick and her in Bay Ridge. As I found myself falling for her, I found her losing interest, so I did the only logical thing I could think of doing – I dipped my pen in the company ink, or rather, the company frosting. To be honest, I don’t think she really cared for me, and I didn’t care for her, but it happened. What I didn’t know, however, is that she would soon be promoted to my manager.
A flirtatious new hire, a 50-cent raise, a new damn flavor, I wasn’t a writer who sold cupcakes during the day – I was a cupcake salesman. I put up with the stream of tourists who’d ask me if the cupcakes really cost a dollar each, I’d shrug when someone would ask why these were so small, and I glared at every camera pulled out that captured photos of the tiny novelty confections, praying I’d suddenly develop laser vision and put those poor phones out of these misery.
Once word got out about my romantic foibles to all or any of these other company, I vowed to become romantically connected with another coworker again never…which seemed to make me thinking about those around me almost. With every hire, you will find a new chance of me to use self-restraint, which-spoiler alert-I didn’t follow. I was influenced by the women as the customers were to the cupcakes.
My love life got as unruly and entangled as my brain during days past, often finding nights where I’d be closing a busy story without less than three women I’d previously had romantic times with. There’s any cattiness from either end never, but a sense of understanding and humor instead. I was that guy…really the only guy. Laurie and I drifted and I went from cupcake girl to cupcake girl away, influenced by the inevitable gossip and difficulties that can come from dating your co-workers. Maybe there is nothing more exciting than acting like your secret may be the talk of the town? Let me think individuals were considering my affairs, but I believe it all happened in comparison.
When it comes right down to it, customer support melts brains. People need television-like plotlines to quell the insane boredom-I was that that plotline. Nothing more, nothing less.
The finish came swiftly when a personal tragedy uprooted my freshly potted life and I had to cut off all ties with the people and places I frequented. I picked up and disappeared from the shop and found myself in trains and buses, desperately trying to pull my entire life back together. It had been that event that end all the relationships inevitably. Just forget about covert flirting before employees, just forget about drunken hookups after work, morning racking your brains on whose cupcake-emblazoned hoodie was whose forget about. I returned never. By plenty of time I started dating my girlfriend, I ran across myself again and became the centered person I’m today, no more looking for the type of attention I so yearned during those right times. I QUICKLY got a typical job with normal coworkers who didn’t need senseless gossip to keep their motors running.
I took plenty of time I needed and moved again to NY in another borough back, in another box-shaped room, with another group of goals in mind. I take off ties with everyone from my cupcake circle and barricaded myself in my own room to get rid of up being the individual I’m today, who’s… I’m uncertain exactly. I came across what happened to many my coworkers never, including Laurie, or if there were any more straight men hired even.
I’m waiting for your entire day after the story breaks regarding the second freezer Perhaps was hidden somewhere with those cupcakes made of heroin-laced frosting… but a theory is really a theory, regardless of the true way you spin it.

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