I hate listening to guys talk. When you hear three or so guys chatting together, you realise what chauvinist pigs they are. I overheard this at work. I know it’s bad to earwig, but I was fascinated, and repulsed.
They were talking about a young woman who has one night stands with rich men, and steals items such as jewellery from their homes. But not Rolexes as these have ID numbers on them. And can be traced. Apparently many of her victims are married, and she has also stolen items of jewellery and shoes belonging to their wives. “So, yeah, if you take a girl home, make sure you lock away your valuables,” said one of the guys.
“It makes you think,” said the other guy, contemplatively, “you invite someone into your home, you have no idea who they are, can you trust them?”
Part of me wanted to confront them. Bang their heads together.
“Usually, I’m just thinking about what I want to do to the girl,” said one of the guys. Gross. Men are such letches. I swear they think about sex every other minute, and money the rest of the time. Also they seem to hide this side of their personalities from the girls they are seeing. I know for a fact that two of those three men over there are regarded as “good catches.”
“Most women I meet are just after cash,” said the more senior of the men. This was a weird comment, coming from a guy who had openly admitted that his Porsche was a ‘babe-magnet’.
“I was dating this Indie girl for a bit,” said the youngest guy, “I was sure she was different, but she still expected me to pick up the tab for everything.”
This hacked me off. I get that some men get tired of picking up the tab, and I know some women can be pretty shameless when it comes to gold-digging. But the Porsche-owner was one of our managers, and he didn’t exactly promote equal pay for equal work.
I emerged round the doorframe just as Porsche-guy was saying – “I swear, all women, on some level, are prostitutes.” His face turned purple. “How’s it going Cara?” he said, “I hear your project is getting off to a good start.” His voice sounded hollow. “Come-on, you know I hate small talk,” I said. “We need to get together later and have an awkward conversation about my pay,” I said, pouring myself a cup of cold water. I do the poker face pretty well, Porsche-guy looked me up and down. The two other guys left, sensing they were not wanted, or not supposed to hear. “You know where we stand with funding,” he said, “my hands are tied.” He shrugged apologetically. “Oh, I understand, I’m just a bit hurt that my pay seems to be where the cuts are made,” I said, “you said yourself that my project is going well, so I don’t really understand the logic.” It was true, I had a better track record than most of the other staff.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said Porsche-guy.
“I’m sorry you feel that way is not an apology,” I said. “Maybe I just need to find myself a husband,” I said, deadpan. Porsche-guy stammered- “are you thinking of leaving?”
“Would I have to leave if I got married?” I asked. He was confused. I could see the cogs in his tiny brain working away. What if she had kids, will she go on leave, will we have to pay her?
I laughed, “don’t worry,” I said, “I don’t really want to get married, who on Earth would I marry anyway,” I glanced around the office at the various noobs. Porsche-guy has never liked me. He hired me because I was smart and cheap and willing to help out with the messy admin in his badly run office.
“Do you really believe that there is a woman stalking New York trying to steal Rolexes?” I said, sternly.
“Maybe,” he said sheepishly,
“And do you think it’s as serious an issue as the number of women who get mugged by men, because they are easy targets?”
He was confused by this. He is easily confused. He shuffled off, and I went back to my work. I will probably get fired for belligerence at some point, but I don’t care, I am tired of hiding my feelings.