I pulled my comforter over my head, prayed for death, and began sweating profusely as my entire body turned red in the heat of humiliation. This could not really be happening. After seven minutes of chest pumping and deep breathing in darkness, I slowly patted around my bed to look for my phone. I opened my texts and stared at my girlfriend’s unanswered “Good morning!” which meant that all the responses I thought I’d sent her went to someone else. That someone else being my boss.
I’d woken up that morning and texted him to ask about working from home for the day. His “no problem” put him as the first contact in my text history for the morning, knocking Taylor down to the second. In my groggy state, the two short messages, I guess, looked identical, and on autopilot I clicked on the wrong one to recall a dream.
I know what you’re thinking — wrong number texts happen all the time! (They don’t.) Their names are probably very similar to each other! (They aren’t.) I’m sure you realized and corrected yourself right away! (Nope.) And it’s not like you accidentally lesbian sexted your straight male boss. (Oh, but I did.) Not to be dramatic, but this is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone. Receipts:
It’s just….it’s so much unwanted information. In a span of two minutes, I accidentally told my boss that:
- My girlfriend has been knocking on the backdoor
- No one was home
- I use ~equipment~
- I am apparently the unsexiest sexter of all time and opt to use emojis in lieu of sex words like some type of pedophile
- I am a bottom
- Like rock bottom
- There are lesbian tops and bottoms, but I never actually explained what that means, thus forcing him into the unfortunate mental state that is having to wonder, but not wanting to ask, as it feels legally questionable to do so given the context
One glaring question, though, remains unanswered: how the FUCK did I text him FIVE times with TWO confused responses before realizing I had the wrong person — a mystery that haunts me to this day.
An hour went by, and he let me sit on my apology, without acceptance or even acknowledgement of what I’d said. That is two months in humiliation years. My mind raced. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought. I mean, he only had to involuntarily envision me — the gargoyle who sits outside his office — pegging him as he drank his morning coffee. Men love that.
Another hour went by. I gchatted Ross’s officemate, Joe, to find out if he was showing any signs of having been sexually harassed by a subordinate. Unfortunately, his screen was airplaying during the marketing meeting at the time of my gchat, so the secondhand embarrassment was being spread over the greatest number of people possible. But on the bright side, my boss seemed unbothered.
I reached the day’s end, and my anxiety had taken the beast on. What if…what if he thought I did it on purpose. That sounds like the type of thing I would do, at like, 19. Ya girl likes attention. And I mean. I just….kept…going. And he just…kept…ignoring it. Mercilessly ragging on me for this, I could take, but pretending it never happened meant the shame needed to live inside me forever.
It was several days, awkward eye contact with JUST the man I never wanted to see again, and a formal cancellation to an informal meeting, before he texted me again. I saw his name in my phone and panicked before opening:
“HAHAHAHAH. I forgot you sexted me. I’m dying laughing all over again. Anyway, can you come by my office? Don’t bring a strap-on.”
Music to my ears..