The Humor and Life, in Particular Web site
author:  Margie Culbertson

"1st Place" in the Best "Short" Humor!
October/November 1999 Contest

On Being a Receptionist


Mark Levitt

Try as I might, I cannot fathom my power over women. I only know that it exists. Yes, the power…the raw irresistible force to induce what were once skittish females who considered sex dirty and invented by Satan into snarling and drooling beasts.

Of course some women do try to grit their teeth to help fight back the desire and convince themselves that they are in committed relationships. Others desperate beyond all reason, try to deaden all their sexual impulses by pounding their bodies against concrete walls. I regard their efforts as pathetic. Clearly, their must be easier ways to divert oneself.

Ah, with my supreme physical beauty, how many women have I consigned to madhouses? Indeed, a man of my physical attainments is hard to come by, but the plain fact that I am also employed as a receptionist…of course, sometimes God has mercy and makes his creatures flawed, sometimes–as in my case–he does not. I am perfection personified.

As a receptionist, I have not only beauty but social status and mystique. Some women, in the throes of passion, rush home to their mothers and shout triumphantly, "Yes, I've taken a lover and yes he is a receptionist!"

How well I know that eager look of interest and enthusiasm when I mouth my profession to a woman. I say to them, be still ladies…hush. A man is not what he does but what he can do for you. They respond at once for they know well the power any red –blooded receptionist can wield.

Some materialistic women of marrying age may reject or write off a man if he is not a receptionist because they desire someone who is equipped to respond to their meeting and greeting needs. For these women, I have only disdain.

Many females seek to tame me. But, like many receptionists, I cannot be tamed. I like to skirt that edge between reception duties and complete utter recklessness such as the purposely inappropriate dispersal of packages or the welcoming of visitors with menacing sneers. It is this wildness that seems to excite women and bring them to breathless rapture. I do not purposely seek such worship but , if such is my lot, I must bear it as one bears any burden; ignoring the discomfiture and trying as best they can to go on. Ultimately, though, I cannot control the wine of desire that coarses through my co–worker's veins like blood, intoxicating their heads, making it difficult for them to sign for packages. I cannot control the way their eyes drop seductively to thank me for buzzing them in and out of doors…why, that is just love's secret pantomime. Even as I write, I espy one woman huddling close to my workstation; hoping desperately that I will invite her for a nightcap. "Please, I say, go away miss. Your base intentions do not exactly endear you in my mind. No, please…my god, what are you doing?!!…no, Miss, put the gun down! No, violence is not the answer. Please, I cannot be nearly as desirable to you if I am dead. Look, I am not worth it. I assure you that in time you will meet other receptionists. Try one floor up. That's it, that's it…good go ahead cry…yes, yes, I know…love hurts."

Ah, well, for those lucky few women who do charm me and are able to get beyond hellos…to them, I will reveal my fascinating world as a receptionist: the career that has made me a giant among my fellow men. True, some might be swept away by the storybook aspect of my life. Others may enjoy all the comforts and trappings that go along with being a receptionist. For all others, though, will I forever and always reside in shadows.

©Mark Levitt

Mark Leavit is 34, works for a publishing company in New York, and spends a lot of his spare time circulating nasty memos to co–workers.

He also has at least one friend, a friend in California with whom Mark co–publishes a zine called appropriately, "Rant". Mark says it gives them a vehicle to rant and rave about the media and life in general. Click HERE to visit the Rant website.

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©Margie Culbertson

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