“So, apart from being silly, what would you say are your core strengths?”
She genuinely said that. I don’t mind the silly part. I just don’t have any strengths.
“Okay, well, I’m humorous,” I lied, “and sometimes making people laugh is my own aim in life.” (That part, at least, is true.) “And I’m knowledgeable. I mean, good for a quiz. ‘Brain’, they used to call me at school.” (That part, at least, is also true… mostly. Nobody’s ever called me ‘Brain’. I was ‘Brains’ for about a week.)
The interviewer smiled politely.
“You said you’re good at IT, and you can play the guitar,” she pressed, shuffling notes. “Are you good with your hands?”
Am I? I do, indeed, play the guitar. I type on keyboards without having to look and see where the keys are. I can flick through the shuffle feature on my iPod without having to do anything other than press the button twice. I can even write longhand, which… is a skill, I suppose.
Not to mention all the wanking, and additionally the fact that, two days ago, I brought someone to a shaking orgasm with nothing but my right hand and a generous helping of adroitness. The rhythmic beat of her clit against my thumb certainly suggests that I am good with my hands.
But I couldn’t say that. Nor could I say yes in all honesty. My left shoulder has been frozen for months and that arm doesn’t extend or flex. Doing the YMCA is impossible, as is playing the violin. I also have a tendency to drop things – pens, phones, my glasses, sex toys.
I don’t think my left foot has ever recovered from having a full-size Doxy impact with it from a great height.
And, of course, I can’t take a firm hold of a breast while licking someone out. I discovered this, again, the other day. The best my hand could manage was to flop around limply on her stomach, like a dying fish.
But I couldn’t tell her that either. I needed to have some sort of answer, though, one that would get me the job.
“Yes?” I settled on.
The gift of brevity.