Bachelorette Diaries, Wk41; 2012


Monday,
8:30 a.m.,

The drive from Karen to Yedioth Ahronoth building in Hurlingham took exactly fifteen minutes. The hangover of the weekend’s activities was weighing on me like a thousand pound yoke on my shoulders.

As a matter of general rule, Mondays are blue for me whether I had had concurrent activities over the weekend or not. The lethargy blossoms to lassitude when I find a Kilimanjaro paper pile on my in-tray, an inbox of unread emails and junk folder overflowing.
Over the weekend I had thrown in a girls’ invitation only private party to fete my recovery from Upshaw-Schülman syndrome.
On Thursday last week, not in the mood of being under the same building with the editor-in-chief Yedioth Ahronoth, Kenya I had gone to Gevin Technologies to see how the company was doing. Georgina was handling everything pretty well since I berated her for her indecisiveness and she had become the General Manager she ought to be befitting a busy MD like me.

After being brought up to speed of what was happening by my PA, Zohara, I had gone to Karen Hospital for my weekly review. The doctor, after performing a slew of tests on me, dropped the bombshell of good news – that I was OK. My platelet count had stabilized, and the Upshaw-Schülman syndrome was completely gone. The only problem was that I might bequeath it to my kid. Well, I will worry about that if I will have one.

My heart had whooped with joy, somersaulted in space and landed in the arms of the TDH doctor who, flabbergasted by my sudden emotional explosion, embraced me languorously. I understood. He was married, but if his wife caught us in the uncompromising position I’d have saved him the stammering by telling his cellmate that her husband had given me the best thing in my life this year, and “please ma’am, it ain’t his joystick”, so no need for hair pulling.

Then the following day we’d had our Bachelorette Club Day evening, not at Galileo’s, but the new middle-class joint, Club Phoenyx, in Kileleshwa. That’s where I had given the girls the invitations, plus a few more for a friend or two, then called it a night by ten o’clock, rushed to the humble arms of Willy and had the ride of all times through the night to the break of the day.

I got rid of my lover long before the private party organizers arrived at my house to start doing what I had paid them to do on Saturday, I inputting occasionally to tailor the event to what I wanted.

When the evening had come and guests started arriving, I had this feeling that I was about to do something crazy.
My three best friends in the whole wide world tagged along their friends who turned out to be the trendy chicks in the media and entertainment industry. As a privilege for being my personal assistant, I had invited Zohara (mistake number one).

Before the party officially became a drinking spree, much less an orgy, I drew everyone’s attention to make a small speech. I’ve never been good at speeches at the best of times, but I did manage to say a few words, thanked them for coming to celebrate my recovery. It had been long, disturbing months fighting the monster that was crawling in my body. Then the party blew to debauchery.

I drank way too much alcohol (mistake number two), so did everybody else. By the time midnight was approaching, my house looked like a bordello of some sort. The girls were laughing coquettishly with imaginary males, others kissing and others undressing, at different stages of undress or naked.

That’s when I saw Zohara do the unthinkable. She made a beeline to her boss. I had warned her never ever to try it again (if she loved her job) but at my state of intoxication my self-will and restraint failed me, and probably I was not in the state of mind to issue sack letters for errant employees.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, my PA and I were doing a million and one things.

For the record, Zohara may be forgiven for that. She is a celebrated lesbian and a LGBT activist, but me, I shall stand forever accused in any court.

Off the record, Zohara has been trying to get me off my pants for long, but up until the weekend I had never doubted I was 100% straight.
Copyright ©2013.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s