Porn ruined my life.
Three months ago, I was a rising star, editor-in-chief in the president's communications office, drafting speeches and managing critical correspondence. Then one slip-up—one single, unforgivable mistake, and it all came crashing down. I can still hear my boss's voice, a blend of fury and disbelief, when he called me into his office.
"You emailed what to the foreign trade minister?!"
It wasn't on purpose, obviously. I was multitasking, sleep-deprived, running on caffeine and deadlines. I clicked the wrong link, attached the wrong file. Instead of the carefully crafted policy document, I sent over... well, porn. And not just any porn, but the very explicit, very unprofessional video I'd been watching during my quick break.
Within 24 hours after hitting the send button, I was no longer the editor-in-chief of anything. I became unemployed, a national embarrassment, and a meme spreading like wildfire across the internet. My face plastered over captions like "Diplomacy level: NSFW", or "Pres. communication aid trades in porn links," and my personal favorite, "Negotiating trade deals... and porn vids".
My downfall was swift and vicious. After being savagely disowned by the office that I've devoted most of my twenties to, I've been struggling with finding new employment. Both private and public sectors seem intent on barring me from the writing industry. Rejection after rejection came charging my way, despite my upstanding credentials and solid years of experience.
But it's been months since the whole fiasco happened, and I'm hoping the dust has finally settled. The world may be unforgiving, but the internet has the attention span of a hyperactive goldfish. With any luck, people have moved on to their next viral victim.
I glance at myself in the reflection of the office door as I walk in for yet another interview. I look haggard. Beaten. Humbled by life. Though my simple, black long-sleeved shirt and pencil skirt scream professional, they don't help much with improving my appearance. My brown eyes have lost their usual sparkle. The highlights of my waist-length brown hair need a touch up, and the strands—dry and crunchy—could definitely use a keratin treatment. I ignore the reflection and step inside.
I'm soon greeted by the receptionist. The woman behind the desk gives me that tight, sympathetic smile, the kind reserved for people who've already lost. Her glossy nameplate says Karen, and her expression says I've already Googled you.
Oh no, not again.
"Ermita Mandaue? Please, have a seat," she says, overly polite, like she's ushering me to a waiting room before the guillotine.
I sit, hands clasped in my lap, trying to look as professional as possible. I made it to the final round, so maybe, just maybe, this won't be like all the other interviews I've bombed in the last three months. Maybe they haven't called my previous employer yet. Maybe they don't know.
Karen clears her throat, flipping through the pristine white papers on her desk, the edges of which I know hold my fate. "Your experience as the editor-in-chief in the president's office is... impressive. But—"
There it is. The but. It's always the same.
"We spoke with your former employer," she continues, giving me that look. The one that's equal parts pity and mild judgment, like I just spilled coffee on a borrowed white dress. "And they mentioned the... incident."
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep a straight face. Incident. Such a neat little word for an earth-shattering, life-ruining mistake. Like I tripped on the stairs or missed a memo. But no, this wasn't a minor office blunder. This was a nuclear disaster of the email kind.
"Right," I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can. "I understand the situation was... unfortunate, but I can assure you, it doesn't reflect my professionalism or my abilities as a writer." I hesitate, knowing how this ends, but I decide to say what's been on my mind for months. "And despite what the internet says, I'm not a porn addict. It was an honest mistake."
Karen raises an eyebrow at my bluntness, but quickly recovers, nodding sympathetically. "Of course. And we truly appreciate your transparency," she says, her voice drenched in that syrupy corporate tone. "But given the media attention surrounding the event, we'd like to take more time with the decision regarding your application."
Classic delaying tactic. Stab me slowly, so I don't die from the shock. But I'll bleed all the same. "I see. Thank you for your time." I stand up, shaking her hand with all the grace I can muster, pretending the rejection doesn't sting like hell.
As I make my way out of the building, I can practically feel the eyes of the receptionist following me. She definitely knows. Everyone knows. It's hard to be anonymous when your face has been plastered all over the internet for three straight months, alongside headlines like, "Top Presidential Aide Sends Porn to Foreign Dignitary—Oops!"
Yes. That was me. The walking, talking disaster that launched a thousand memes. Why don't you come over and ask for my autograph? I sigh. I'm being bitter. Karen was just performing her role when she did some digging about my previous employment. No need for me to harbor ill feelings towards her. At least she seemed sympathetic towards my case as opposed to the previous recruiters I've met in the past. Just as I reach the building's exit, my phone rings. My heart thunders in my rib cage, hope fluttering up despite everything. Maybe it's the company reconsidering. Maybe they've changed their minds.
I pull out my phone, see an unfamiliar number, and answer. "Hello?"
The robotic voice on the other end quickly crushes whatever hope I had left. "This is a reminder that your payment is overdue. Please contact us immediately to avoid further action..."
I hang up before the message finishes. Loan collectors. Just the cherry on top of my perfect failure sundae. To add to my bad luck, I'm still trying to figure out how to pay for a condo I bought at the peak of my success and a car I can barely afford to park, let alone drive. Now outside, the midday Manila heat hits me like a wall. I'm drenched in sweat in seconds. Mangled voices from the crowded street surround me. And instead of tuning it out, I welcome it and let it rise above the noise of my own frustration. Still, my internal chaos shouts louder. I hear it clearly like a mantra: Your bills are piling up. You were once in a meeting with world leaders and now on the brink of losing everything you worked so hard to build. You've been unemployed for three months.
Money, money, money. The word buzzes in my head like an annoying fly I can't shake off. With plenty of meditation, I can handle the shame that came with my downfall. But the more pressing matter, the more tangible issue—my lack of income—is a problem that I simply can not zen away. Sure, I have money saved up after a past decade of working. But after paying off the down payment for my condo unit and car, add to that my daily expenses for the past three months, I'll be in the red soon if I don't find a job in the immediate future.
I chew my lips. At this rate, I may really have to accept my best friend's offer of lending me money. Shame on me. How much longer do I have to rely on her? No, no. I mustn't. If it's just her, she might not mind it. But Cass's boyfriend will for sure have to say something about it. I dial her number anyway. Not to borrow money, but just to have someone to talk to.
After a few rings, her voice comes through, cheerful. "Ermita? Hey, what's going on? Found a job yet?"
"Hey, Cass," I say, trying to keep my tone light. "Where are you?"
"I'm at home. Preparing for a photoshoot tomorrow. What's up?"
"I'm in the neighborhood. Thought I'd come over." I say, dodging people along the road.
"Perfect! Jericho is here making us some snacks. Why don't you join us?" She says, her excited voice carrying through my end of the line.
Jericho, her long-term boyfriend, from my experience, has never been the welcoming sort, at least not to me, whom he considers below their status in life. I wanted to cancel. I'm in no mood for Jericho's passive-aggressive snobby attitude. But Cass has always been good at sensing my mood, before I can back out, she shouts just out of her phone's speaker, "Love, Erms is coming over. Make that dinner for three."
I start to protest, then change my mind. Pointless to do so when I already knew Cass always got her way somehow. "I'll be there in a few minutes. I'm already on my way."
We hung up after making plans, and I made my way toward Bonifacio Global City, where Cassandra lives. I take in the shiny buildings and new trendy shops that seem like a world away from my current reality. Just a few months ago, I could walk these streets with my head held high. Now, I'm just trying to keep my head above water. I pass a café and consider stopping for an iced coffee to cool off, but I'm pinching pennies. Pathetic. I keep walking, willing myself not to dwell on how quickly things went from editor-in-chief to broke and desperate. Then, my phone buzzes again. I stop in my tracks, hoping against hope it's something—anything—other than another loan collector. It's a number I don't recognize, and for a second, my heart skips. Could it be? Could Karen have reconsidered?
Maybe she checked her files again and decided that my qualifications outweighed my public humiliation. Maybe, just maybe, I'm getting a second chance.
I quickly answer the call. "Hello?"