The Boring

By Deborah Curci, writing as Kate Kersey

Boris stood at the window, looking at the tossing sea that spread from horizon to horizon. He was alone when he muttered, “I just can’t take it anymore… the, the boring…”. He twitched lightly, shoulder meeting cheek, arms wrapped around himself in a reassuring self-hug.

The well drilling rig had been out in the sea for as long as anyone cared to remember. It was as much part of the view as the gulls and the waves.

Deep beneath those waves was a drill so large, with a bit so huge and fierce, that it was able to puncture the earth and drain it of its rich prehistoric hoard. However deeply buried, the bit continued with the boring and the oil kept flowing.

Should you pity the men engaged in this petroleum phlebotomy, don’t. They are paid handsomely to deal with the boring aspects of their career. They manage the heavy machinery, the computers, the life on the rig with the dedication bought by handsome wages and long stretches ashore.

Certainly, the well drillers are human, and a percentage fall to the wayside, victims of a hot drug test, a hangover that shows, or a missed chopper to the rig. And some can’t deal with the boring hours on board, or the constant vibrations of the boring drill.

Given the boring nature of the job, the oil company made sure the men were comfortable in their off-duty hours. The room and board included in the job was excellent: roomy quarters for all but the lowliest and food that was prepared by a kitchen and staff worthy of any restaurant.

To enliven the boring stretches between shifts and sleep, the rig had an arcade, a tv room that looked like a small sports bar – until you realized there was no booze. Alcohol was forbidden on the rig, and possession of it resulted in as automatic a termination as drugs. There was a small reading room, and plenty of deck space and balcony stretches for running, for those who didn’t feel exercised enough by the job.

Boris didn’t struggle with the lack of booze or drugs, and he didn’t even mind the absence of women and their puzzling, complicated selves.

What Boris loathed, however, was being on watch. That job was exactly what it sounded like: watching. No activity, no tasks, no distractions permitted. If you were caught looking at a cell phone you were in deep shit, and a longer than necessary glance at a smart watch got you some hard looks and chilly tones.

Boris didn’t mind his hard work on the rig, but his turn on watch was so dreadful, the boring hours were so long, that all he could do was stare over the water and think. Boris hated to think.

At twenty three, Boris was content on the rig, as long as he could do his job, workout in the small, well equipped gym, or play video games in the arcade room.  His room was comfortable and he read for hours on his bed, books about strange things that titillated and excited him, frightened and delighted him.

It had been three weeks since his team’s last time ashore, there were three weeks to go before the next. Some of the men seemed unmoved but others seemed more snappy, easily agitated, at this mid point than they were even longer into their dry spells, missing their crutches of women or subtances.

Boris knew he should have slept more, before his shift on watch. Instead, he read too long and ran out of time for a nap. He’d known then that he’d pay for it later, but the book, the book. It couldn’t have been more vivid to him if it had been a movie, full of rich flesh tones, waving hair and smooth palms. The visions the book created couldn’t have been more implanted on his brain if they’d been the finest, most luscious of oil paintings.

So he laid on his bed and read, and he checked his watch, and he read some more. At some of the words his body strained, arching with desire that, he realized with a rush, he had no time to assuage in his lonely way.

Boris’s head jerked slightly and he realized he’d been slouching against the rail, and his eyes had, incredibly, closed for a beat too long. This would never do.

A mist was rising from the smoky darkness of the ocean and the only lights this moonless night were those of the rig. Boris opened the glass door and stepped out onto the steel railed balcony. As he held the rail, looking over, he saw a rigger standing some distance away, in a dark overhang. Wondering what the man was doing, Boris watched. “No,” he murmured in disbelief as a second man jointed the first and they immediately embraced, not knowing that Boris’ angle was the one vantage point that exposed their tryst.

Boris watched, mouth dry, as the men groped and hugged, mouths moving over skin in the near darkness. Near darkness, for Boris had no difficulty seeing each move. It was a forceful lovemaking, and as he watched, his hand found himself and began to stroke through his work pants, while muttering, “no, no… no.”

The other riggers had long assumed, without caring, that he was gay. The days of open discrimination had been gone so long that even the subtler forms were illegal and considered immoral by most thinking individuals.

Boris, however, didn’t like to think. He didn’t dwell on why, despite his boyish good looks that girls liked, he couldn’t find one whose kisses made him hard. He’d stopped trying, the last girls’ mocking laughter had only ceased when he’d taken a menacing step towards her, slicing her laugh like a knife.

But now, oh god, now… and as he watched, the two men saw him. One had been stooping to unzip the other’s jeans, and Boris, near fainting, could only stand immobile when both men straightened and turned to face him.

Panting, Boris waited for the repercussions. Would the men ignore him? Come beat him up for spying on them? Would they – worst of all – stop doing what they were doing?

And then, incredibly, they both waved him down to them. It was an unmistakable invitation. Boris gasped, almost ready to explode into his pants. He was so excited he had a hobble to his walk as he hurried down the exposed walkways, down the staircases, and to the overhang. He immediately grabbed one of the two men and shoved his tongue down the man’s throat thirstily, then stepped back. He looked into the man’s blue eyes, put his hands on his shoulders, and pushed down, urging him to his knees. As the man sank, so obediently, Boris’s head fell back into the pillow and he cried out as he came into his dream, and then out of his sleep, back into the boring.