Fuck me that shit is painful, there is one slut in my office that fucks a new guy every week, literally. Today she was telling everyone about how great anal is, how tight ass holes are and telling my coworker that has a gf to try it.
Well, I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that I've never been subjected to conversations quite that explicit in the workplace.
Having said that, I recently overheard a conversation between two coworkers that actually bothered me more than I think some recounting of depraved antics ever could.
The conversation in question was between two young, relatively attractive women. Both involved in relationships, one a mother the other engaged to be married. Each a picture of hope and health, their entire lives before them. They were discussing men they found attractive, which was fine, I suppose. However, as time went by, the conversation progressed into one regarding men they didn't find attractive and, eventually, became an almost philosophical discussion about ugly men. Between the most innocent-sounding giggles, they asked each other what should be made of truly repulsive men.
Those men certainly didn't choose their unfortunate plights, they agreed. You can't indict a man for one of Mother Nature's crimes no more than you can prosecute a hurricane or tsunami for mass-murder regardless of how many they execute. And, quite frankly, I admired them for that little insight. It was far more honesty than I've heard from others who, invoking magic words like "creepy", attempted to transform the natural evil of ugliness into moral wickedness.
This realization on the part of these young ladies could have been the beginning of something like sympathy. They acknowledged that there those who suffer a variety of hurt few others do simply due to cruelties inflicted by an indifferent Fate. Perhaps not the worst pain, but a severe and rare one nonetheless. It could have been eye-opening for them, an initiation into something almost occult. Imagine an actual human being empathizing with a monster, if only for a a moment.
The problem, of course, is that no one wants to be initiated into unpleasant mysteries. Some secrets are best left hidden. Having finished their conversation, my two pretty coworkers shrugged their shoulders, giggled one final time, and parted ways. And if the substance of that conversation ever crossed their minds again, perhaps for a moment in the dead of night, they would without a doubt reach out to the person sleeping beside them and sigh with relief. All nightmares exorcised, all sad thoughts driven back to the dark and lonely places they slithered up from.
Can you blame them, though? The pleasure an angel takes in Paradise may become something else entirely were it to glimpse into Hell unflinching and acknowledge the misery of those condemned to burn there. One of the devils born to Pandemonium may resent the angels, may spit at them, scream at them, curse them through clenched teeth.
The only thing the damned can't do is blame the redeemed for refusing to burn alongside them.
