Tell Me It's Real

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Authors: TJ Klune
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different kind of package we wanted to sign for, and the ACLU was forgotten. Cock tends to make things bearable).
    So I was distracted. I kept getting a stupid error message on my screen, and I was about to chuck the keyboard across the room when I heard Sandy begin to choke. I looked over at him, ignoring the two people standing in front of me. Sandy’s eyes were bulging from his head as he stared up at our boss and the other dude. I frowned at him. “Are you okay?” I asked.
    He nodded as he started coughing, his face turning read. I didn’t know what the hell his problem was, but he didn’t seem to be dying, so I figured he was okay. I swiveled in my chair to face my boss and my nine o’clock distraction.
    My boss, Chris, smiled at me. “All right. This is—”
    “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I almost shouted.
    Chris took a step back. “Pardon me?”
    But I wasn’t even listening to him. He ceased to exist. All I was aware of was the sharp buzzing in my ears, how my palms became instantly sweaty. I knew I was turning red and I was fighting a losing battle to curl up in on myself. I knew when ( if ) I spoke next, my voice would be soft, so much so that my words would be unintelligible. My shyness and awkwardness were trying very, very hard to take over, and I was fighting against them in a losing battle.
    Because, oh because, standing in front of me, dressed in expensive-looking slacks, a crisp white shirt adorned with a silk tie and suspenders (really? Really ? Suspenders ?), looking like he just walked out of a photo shoot for a magazine called I Look Better Than Anyone Ever , stood the man I’d spent the last two nights fantasizing about. Mr. Yes Please. Dimples, of course, on full display.
    “Paul,” Vince Taylor said, his voice deep and looking inordinately pleased about something . “How nice to see you again.” He grinned at me like we shared a great big secret.
    My boss looked confused.
    Sandy continued to sound like he was dying.
    “Fuck,” I whispered.

Chapter 4
    I Am Going To Freddie Prinze Junior You So Hard
     
     
    “ G OD hates me,” I groaned to Sandy at lunch later that day. We sat at some restaurant that was supposed to be a hip and trendy vegetarian place. So, of course, all I could think about was how hilarious it would be if I went next door to Burger King and got the biggest bacon cheeseburger they had and ate it in the vegetarian restaurant in front of all the hip and trendy vegetarians. I suck like that sometimes. “It’s like he got bored and thought, ‘Hmmmm. I don’t want to mess with Africa today, and I don’t want to send Hurricane Ebonica to wipe out Florida, so I’ll just fuck with Paul.’”
    “Hurricane Ebonica?” Sandy asked, his lips twitching.
    “I thought the hurricane could use a bit more ethnicity,” I muttered. “They always sound so white. It’s not fair to other races. You always hear about hurricanes called Carl or Diane, but you never hear of Hurricane Rodrigo Sanchez or Ji-Ting Kao.”
    “Only you would fight for the civil rights of hurricanes,” Sandy said, smiling sweetly at me.
    “Someone has to,” I insisted, wondering just how we’d gotten to this point in the conversation, but realizing it was probably my fault.
    “Let’s focus on Hurricane Paul for a second,” he said.
    I looked at him, horrified. “Are you saying I should suck and blow him?”
    Sandy looked startled for a moment. “Paul Auster,” he said, chuckling. “Just when I think I know you completely, you can still say shit that surprises me.”
    This pleased me for some reason, but I ignored it. Instead, I frowned.
    He reached over to pat my hand before diving back into his salad. I looked down at my own. I guarantee you there has never been a single person in the world who ate a salad and said, “Gee, I am so full now. Thank God I just had that .” It’s just not possible. My body needed bacon to live.
    “Next time we come here, I’m bringing my own

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