Passover in L.A.

A124 postoffice

Written by Logan K. Young. Young, the author of Mauricio Kagel: A Semic Life, is a two-timing Jewrotica writer.

Rated R“WE NEED TO TALK…

Our state-sponsored retreat to San Diego was about to be delivered, just in time for Passover. And with all the sex going on inter-office, we needed to get away…just not with everyone else.

STEP INTO MY OFFICE, BABY!

Despite objections from my co-worker Avigail (we had one drunken romp, years ago), I had just started seeing “General Lawrence.” I was a lowly clerk―little more than the government’s temp, really―mostly to “Larry”’s second-in-command. Let’s call him “Lieut. Henry.” That’s right, I was takin’ it from my boss’s boss. And as two adult Jewish men in the public service are often wont to do, we tried to keep our sexy time out of the prying eyes of the United States Postal Service.

I WANT TO GIVE YOU THE JOB.

Unbeknownst to me, Micha, one of our delivery men, also had objections to my and Larry’s little trysts. And while there was certainly nothing little about ‘li’l Larry’ (I’m a shvantz queen, so sue me), I couldn’t help but feel belittled when the General told me that Micha bet him 100 big ones we couldn’t keep our humps from the rest of the branch. Larry was cute, funny and waaay into tantric seXXX, and it was that breeder Micha who had placed the bet. How hoTTT our stolen kisses by the vending machine were, knowing how expensive they could have been.

A CHANCE OF OVERTIME;

OK, so here’s where it gets complicated. Stay with me, kinder: I was getting fucked by the Gen. However, I used to fuck another co-worker, “Gilbert.” (I know, I know; le shamé!) Gil got wind of Larry and I―guess ol’ Micha was right, after all―so he started flirting with Miriam―a frumpy, sexless driver oblivious to everything―in a silly attempt to make me jelly. My direct boss, “Lieutenant Henry,” was married with like four or five booger-eaters at home, so I suppose he wasn’t gettin’ any at all. Poor guy, I actually found him kind of cute. Finally, as we could totally hear our very first night in San Diego, Micha and Avigail were now an item, too.

SAY, MY PLACE, AT 9?”

Speaking of San Diego, suffice it to say that it vas a vee bit awkward. Thank god Miriam had to stay home with her legion of cats, at least. I don’t remember much about the specifics of the trip, but I’m sure there were a lot of team-building seminars, trust falls and similar wastes of taxpayer monies. To be fair, though, I’m more sure the majority of people who handle your mail 9-2-5 don’t then go home and manhandle each other’s tucheses. But, as in any office anywhere The Pony Express hath trod, it happens. In the end, a laid postal worker is a happy postal worker. And let’s face it: you wouldn’t want to see us angry. No, you wouldn’t like us when we’re…‘postal.’

― “STEP INTO MY OFFICE, BABY”

from Dear Castastrophe Waitress (Rough Trade, ‘03)

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