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<TD ALIGN="LEFT"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia">Zoe Clark</FONT></B></TD>
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<TD ALIGN="RIGHT"><B><FONT FACE="Georgia"><A HREF="bios_a2l.shtml#Alton" TITLE="click for author info">Tara Alton </A></FONT></B></TD>
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<TD><FONT FACE="Georgia" SIZE="2">These are my screwed up thoughts about my sex life and other exaggerations.
In college, I watched this guy squeezing his zit on his neck in
my computer class. It was repulsive and yet fascinating at the
same time. I could not look away. He wasn’t a bad looking guy
either, almost fuckable, except for the craters. The eruption
was like a grand finale to his finger ballet, and I almost applauded.
As I watched him wipe off the discharge on his jeans, I realized
I hadn’t even heard what the teacher had said for the last ten
minutes, which was a bad thing because she had just given us our
instructions for our final exam.<BR>
<BR>
Two years later, I came across this same guy in a redneck bar,
which overlooked the lake. It was a rough sort of place, and I
was there by myself, nursing a long neck beer. I was thankful
I wasn’t at home with my mom and adolescent brother, eating Hamburger
Helper and listening to her wax poetic about how wonderful the
intern girls were in her office. When she did this, she reminded
of a husband who didn’t have a clue that his poor wife might not
want to hear about the strippers and waitresses he recently flirted
with. It made you wonder if they were so great what were you?
Chopped liver?<BR>
<BR>
I’m not sure if this guy remembered me from college or not, but
we danced together all night. It felt good to have his arms draped
around my neck. After last call, I blew him in the parking lot,
mostly because I was lonely and horny, and I liked the way he
had been grinding his hard on against me during the slow songs.
Just as he started to come, I thought about that white discharge
squirting from his zit in class two years ago Amazingly, I didn’t
get sick.<BR>
<BR>
The next morning, with my jaw a little sore because he took so
long, I went to work. Much like my mother, I was a business drone,
but at least I didn’t work at the Secretary of State like her.
I worked at a huge corporation in a high-rise building. The field
of business wouldn’t have been my first choice either, but I wasn’t
sure what I wanted to do with my life. My mom said if I got an
associates degree in Business Administration and if I got a job
in an office, I could still live at home, even though I’m twenty-two.
So keeping this in mind, I chose a position as an office underling,
guiding sheets of paper through the corridors of what I like to
think is purgatory.<BR>
<BR>
After getting my morning cup of java, I visited the ladies rest
room. For days now, there has been a red button scotch taped to
one of the stalls. Someone must have found it on the floor and
thought this was a good way to return it to its owner. The button
has been fascinating me to no end. The owner must have seen it
by now. There are only two stalls in the ladies room for Pete’s
sake, and I’ve never seen a man wear a red sweater to work, not
even at Christmas.<BR>
<BR>
Unable to take it any longer, I finally pushed the button to see
if something would happen, sort of like in a panic button type
of way. Nothing happened. How anticlimactic, I thought. Disappointed,
I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, thinking the episode
was over, but I still couldn’t get the button out of my mind!
It had to be there for a reason. That was when I decided it was
a sign from above that I should do something important, and it
had to do with something the color red.<BR>
<BR>
The only thing that had stood out recently in the red department
was the socks on whom I like to call ABM, Alan Brandon Michaels
and/or Aloof Business Man. He was an executive in upper management.
I spotted his red wool ankles under a table in a conference room
when I was breezing by the doorway. It’s not that red socks were
a big deal, but for someone who was so impeccable dressed in expensive
suits everyday, his shirts superbly ironed, it was.<BR>
<BR>
When I first met him, I thought he was charming and attractive
like everyone else. He was in his thirties, and he was tall and
broad shouldered with raven hair and a sly smile. Then I realized
his moods could be like night or day. You never had a clue what
you were going to get. I’d watched him many a time reduce a female
coworker to tears in a manner of seconds.<BR>
<BR>
I always wondered what his deal was. I mean where did he get off.
To me, he had everything, a high power job, a Lexus, an apartment
in Birmingham, a different beautiful woman clinging to his arm
at every after work function. He had nothing to be an asshole
about.<BR>
<BR>
After Easter, I must have caught him on one of his good days because
we actually had an interaction. I had been carefully aging three
yellow marshmallow Peeps on my desk for the last two weeks. I’d
even named them. I was coming back from the copy room and I saw
him steal one.<BR>
<BR>
Furious, I confronted him in his office.<BR>
<BR>
“You stole one of my Peeps,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
Like a little kid, he quickly swallowed and looked innocent at
me. “I did?”<BR>
<BR>
“Yes. You did. I saw you.”<BR>
<BR>
“Do you have any proof?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
If I’d known him better, I would have walked over to him, pinched
open his mouth and looked for tell tale signs of marshmallow between
his teeth, but I didn’t.<BR>
<BR>
“I would just like to say that Frank didn’t appreciate being Peep
napped,” I said. “He was looking forward to his timely demise
in my mouth.”<BR>
<BR>
“Who is Frank?” he asked, looking confused.<BR>
<BR>
“The Peep you just murdered.”<BR>
<BR>
Mortified by his lack of concern, I turned away and went back
to my desk.<BR>
<BR>
The next morning, I found my remaining peeps, Penelope and Oscar,
having sex on my desk and a pieces of a cut up pink one behind
them. ABM came strolling over to my desk the moment he saw me.
Mischief twinkled in his eyes.<BR>
<BR>
“What is this?” I asked.<BR>
<BR>
“They had babies,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
From behind him, he pulled out an opened package of pink Peeps
with one missing. He gave me his sly smile and handed it to me.
How could I stay mad at him? I handed him Oscar. I took Penelope
and we ate them. We split the babies between us.<BR>
<BR>
“That was the best sex I’ve had in months,” he said, brushing
off his hands.<BR>
<BR>
That was when I realized what his problem was.<BR>
<BR>
Therefore, because of the red button and his comment, I passed
him a note that read “YNBPF”, which stood for “You’ve never been
properly fucked.”<BR>
<BR>
Later when I went to the bathroom, I found the red button was
gone. I realized that I should have kept it. I could have started
a “signs that changed my life” box or a “new romance with ABM”
box. I’ve always been one for collecting things in boxes, even
when I was little. I liked imposing organization on my part of
the universe. When I was ten, I used to collect rocks. Mostly
they were from the playground at school, but I also use to look
for them in yards, gardens and parking lots. I loved stuffing
pink quartzite and light gray limestone in my pockets and feeling
the weight of them. At home, I stored them under my bed in a shoebox.<BR>
<BR>
At twelve years old, I collected bees in cola bottles. This was
more of a semi permanent collection. I’d run around the back yard,
trapping the poor bees on dandelions and I’d wait to see if they
could fly out of the bottles. <BR>
At twenty-two years old, I was collecting interesting autumn leaves
from our acre long back yard that bordered on a woods flaring
with red and yellow colors. I thought the leaves were pretty,
and they should be preserved like little skeletons of times gone
by.<BR>
<BR>
Once again, I was using a shoebox, the only difference being this
wasn’t a Buster Brown shoebox. This was a shoebox from my “come
and fuck me” 4-inch black patent leather pumps.<BR>
<BR>
Today, I thought I was looking quite the rustic girl in my faded
blue jeans and red plaid flannel shirt with my shoulder length
auburn hair tied back as I worked on my collection when I came
across Justin, my neighbor, who was having a smoke behind an oak
tree.<BR>
<BR>
Justin was my age, but he had dropped out of college and he went
to live with his Dad in California for a while. Now he was back
home living with his mom. When we were seven years old, we once
had a session of doctor in an abandoned car in a field. During
high school, I fooled around with him in my bedroom a couple times
in an “I’m bored and you’re in the vicinity” type of thing<BR>
<BR>
For the first time, I noticed the contrast between Justin and
ABM. It was striking. Justin was perpetually unkempt. He always
wore ancient jeans and an army jacket. His T-shirt logos were
always ten years behind the times, mostly pot leaves and heavy
metal bands. You could just see the bong collection and black
light posters in his room. The only jobs he’d ever kept for more
than a week were pizza delivery boy and video rental store clerk.<BR>
<BR>
A few weeks ago, we had a brief grope session at a garage sale.
It’s not something I was proud of. It happened during a moment
of weakness. My motives for being at the garage sale were not
pure either. I wasn’t there because I was looking for a funky
seventies burnt orange colored sofa or the last piece of bone
china for my mother’s plate collection. I was being nosy because
I had never liked these neighbors and I wanted to see what crap
they were selling.<BR>
<BR>
Justin showed up almost the same time I did. I hoped he wasn’t
following me. He appeared to be fascinated by the tools while
I checked out the board games. Eventually, he came over by me.<BR>
<BR>
“So why are you back here?” I asked. “Did you fall out with your
Dad?”<BR>
<BR>
“Nothing like that,” he said. “I was missing shit.”<BR>
<BR>
“They don’t have shit in California.”<BR>
<BR>
He shrugged.<BR>
<BR>
“There is shit anywhere you go,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
Justin sighed.<BR>
<BR>
“My dad said I could come back anytime,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
I moved away, looking at a table of partially undressed and rejected
Barbie dolls. I rather liked the way their limbs were all clacked
together.<BR>
<BR>
Justin held up a pair of granny panties.<BR>
<BR>
“Is this your style?” he asked me.<BR>
<BR>
“No.”<BR>
<BR>
“So what is?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
“None of your business,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
To get away from him, I ducked behind a clothes rack, but he followed
me. Without permission, he grabbed my ass and slid his hands down
my jeans, apparently to find out what kind of underwear I was
wearing. The only thing I was wearing was a tiny thong. His fingers
hit bare skin. The protest I was about to launch died in my throat.
His fingers inched along my skin, his breath in my ear.<BR>
<BR>
Part of me wanted to yell at him “get your freakin hands out of
my pants.” The other part of me wanted to tell him to move on
down to my crack. Suddenly, an old lady yanked open the clothes
to get a better look at a blue floral print housedress.<BR>
<BR>
We scurried out of there like mice.<BR>
<BR>
I hadn’t seen him since. Glancing at him now, I wondered how he
could look even scruffier.<BR>
<BR>
“You wouldn’t be wearing that thong again?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
“What about it?”<BR>
<BR>
“It was interesting.”<BR>
<BR>
“Interesting how?” I asked.<BR>
<BR>
He shrugged.<BR>
<BR>
“Are you wearing it?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
I nodded.<BR>
<BR>
He stepped in closer. I felt a weird flip flop in my stomach.
Like he was unveiling an important painting, he lifted up the
corner of my flannel shirt, unzipped my jeans an inch and brushed
his fingers along the skin of my hip.<BR>
<BR>
Gooseflesh tickled my skin. Suddenly, this stomach churning desire
tormented me. I yanked down my pants the rest of the way and turning
my butt so it faced him and grabbed the tree for support.<BR>
<BR>
Gone was the clumsy teenager who I had to show which hole was
which. It felt as if he knew my body as if he had the owner’s
manual. It astounded me. Whom had he been fucking? That blowjob
with zit boy in the parking lot seemed like nothing compared to
this.<BR>
<BR>
A few molar rattling minutes later, it was over. I turned around,
zipping up my pants, dizzy with my lingering orgasm, when I caught
his expression. He looked all detached, like Joe Cool, as if he’d
done me a big favor. Then he lit up and flicked his match.<BR>
<BR>
It fell in my leaf box. Whoosh! It went up in a ball of flame.
It never had a chance. I stared in horror at my newly incinerated
collection. <BR>
<BR>
“You can fuck me from behind,” I cried out, storming back to my
house. “But you better not burn my leaves.”<BR>
<BR>
Since my leaf collection was gone and the garage sale gave me
an idea, I’ve now decided to collect naked fashion dolls, not
exclusively Barbie either. And as an added bonus, I’m rubber banding
them together in sexual positions. As I child, I never did like
playing with their hair or constructing elaborate dramas, but
now I sort of liked the idea of their naked limbs entwined together
in sexual parodies.<BR>
<BR>
When I’m finished, maybe I’ll submit my collection to an art gallery,
or I’ll take photos of them for a coffee table book or I might
just give them to my little brother. <BR>
<BR>
After dinner, on my way outside to take out the trash, I found
an envelope on my car. I opened it. Justin had made me an artistic
rendering of a leaf in charcoal. Basically, he traced a leaf as
if a five-year-old might in kindergarten. Then he burnt the edges
of the paper with his lighter. How original. At the bottom, he
wrote, “I want to fuck you again.” I added mommy to the end of
the sentence, put it back inside the envelope, addressed it to
his mother and left it in their mailbox. <BR>
Just in case this came back to bite me in the ass, I found my
mother in the den watching TV. I told her I was having problems
with Justin.<BR>
<BR>
“Why are you hanging out with that loser?” she asked. “Find a
nice boy. One of my interns met a lovely guy. They had a lovely
wedding reception in the basement of the church. They served lemonade
and cookies.”<BR>
<BR>
“If I want lemonade and cookies, I’ll go back to grade school,”
I said and left the room.<BR>
<BR>
The doll collection wasn’t coming along a well as I thought it
should, so I decided I needed more fashion dolls. I went garage
sailing far away from home and Justin, where I found what I needed.
After I paid for them, I started stripping them in the driveway.
I didn’t need the clothes. Onto the pavement dropped a green spandex
disco outfit, a pink tutu and a mermaid skirt. A little girl came
up to me and asked me why I was taking off their clothes.<BR>
<BR>
“I don’t need them,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
“Why?” she asked, her eyes big.<BR>
<BR>
“Because they are naked performance artists,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
I gave her the clothes and got out of there before she asked her
mother what naked performance artists were.<BR>
<BR>
When I got home, I arranged my dolls in order of what I would
to do to ABM if he ever decoded the note. Mostly the dolls were
blonds and brunettes. I’d been unsuccessful in finding a red head
like me. At first, I thought about combing their tangled, disheveled
hair, but then I decided to leave them in their natural state.
<BR>
<BR>
The girl dolls far outnumbered the boy dolls, so the boys were
just going to have to work that much harder. After I arranged
them, it looked very impressive. Very horny stuff indeed.<BR>
<BR>
Once I had my collection arranged, I turned my attention to a
cardboard box in the corner of my room. My mother unbeknownst
to me had been cleaning out the attic. She had brought down a
box of my childhood stuffed animals. Extracting them, I realized
I must have had sex with them all. So many of them had bald spots.
Was I that horny of a kid? No wonder little girls liked unicorns
so much. Several of mine were my early dildo collection.<BR>
<BR>
I pulled out a particularly sad looking stuffed tiger. He had
lost his tail in a tragic accident, or so I had told my friends.
Actually, I had been sticking it up inside me to see how far it
would go. Its tale was reinforced with a wire so it was quite
stiff. Surprisingly enough with my youthful zeal, I lost my virginity
with it. Then I couldn’t get the blood off the tail it so I gave
my tiger an operation and buried the tail in the backyard.<BR>
<BR>
Now, I felt so bad about what I’d done to my tiger. Was that how
you treated your best friend who listened to all your secrets
at night? If only I could put things right, but I didn’t know
how.<BR>
<BR>
Having had enough nostalgia for the day, I put the stuffed animals
back in the box, and I went downstairs to do a load of laundry
where I made a life altering decision in front of the washing
machine.<BR>
<BR>
I’ve decided to move out. This was the last time my little pervert
of a brother will steal my clothes, whack off on them and leave
them in the washing machine. In an effort to curb his activities
until I can get my own place, I left him a handful of my old granny
panties with a note that said if he touched anything else, I‘d
break his fingers.<BR>
<BR>
Before I moved out though, I realized I needed to find my tiger
tail and restore it to my childhood best friend. Taking a shovel
from the back yard, I tried to retrace my devirginized steps from
all those years ago, but finding myself unsuccessful, I just started
digging holes in frustration.<BR>
<BR>
Justin showed up. If he didn’t watch out, he was going to get
a smack in the face with my shovel because of his self-satisfied
smirk.<BR>
<BR>
“What on earth are you doing now?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
“I’m going to cut up the people who annoy me and bury the pieces
in the backyard,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
“You know if you weren’t pretending to be a bad ass all the time,
you might be tolerable to hang around with,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
“Screw you.”<BR>
<BR>
He paused.<BR>
<BR>
“I have,” he said. “Screwed you. And that little note trick did
not work with my mom. I already told her you were a psycho.”<BR>
<BR>
“I’m not a psycho. You are.”<BR>
<BR>
“Who is digging holes in her backyard,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
“I’m looking for something.”<BR>
<BR>
“Well, let me know when you find it.”<BR>
<BR>
He flicked his cigarette butt at me and left.<BR>
<BR>
“Arson” I called out after him.<BR>
<BR>
Once he was gone, I put down my shovel. I felt like crying. This
was intolerable. I did have to move out, but the only way I can
afford it is to get a raise. To do that, I must move up in the
corporate world. I must transform myself from a slacker to a
polished, productive and professional employee.<BR>
<BR>
During the next week at work to improve my standing with the corporation,
I volunteered to be a part of the Diversity Committee, offered
to type up the last team meeting notes, and let my supervisor
know I was up for any special projects. I even changed the type
of clothes I wore. Instead of wearing Polo shirts, Dockers and
loafers, I chose A-line skirts, twin sets and mules.<BR>
<BR>
Sitting at my desk, feeling very uncomfortable in my panty hose,
I got a phone call. I thought it might be my supervisor congratulating
me on my new attitude, but it was a man’s voice I didn’t recognize.<BR>
<BR>
“Who is this?” I asked.<BR>
<BR>
“This note,” he said. “What does it mean?”<BR>
<BR>
My heart fluttered. ABM. I glanced around the room. No one was
within earshot.<BR>
<BR>
“Figure it out,” I said. “You’re the one with the private office
and huge salary. You should be able to figure out a simple note.”<BR>
<BR>
“This doesn’t have to do with the Peeps,” he said. “Because I
made restitutions.”<BR>
<BR>
“This is an entirely different issue,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
“Give me a clue.”<BR>
<BR>
“It’s one of your biggest problems,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
He paused. I could hear him drumming his fingers on his desk.<BR>
<BR>
“Why did you give it to me?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
“A red button told me to,” I said and hung up.<BR>
<BR>
The next day, I was trying to decide on what was the most corporate
looking snack in the vending machine, pretzels or chips, when
ABM came into in the lunchroom. He was looking very good, I might
add.<BR>
<BR>
“I figured out your note,” he said. “And you’re mistaken.”<BR>
<BR>
“What did it say?”<BR>
<BR>
He raised an eyebrow.<BR>
<BR>
“You’ve never been properly fucked,” he said. “But you’re wrong.”<BR>
<BR>
I looked him up and down.<BR>
<BR>
“Why are you still so aloof and uptight then?” I asked.<BR>
<BR>
“To keep the underlings in their place,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
“Do you consider me an underling?”<BR>
<BR>
He bought a package of miniature jawbreakers<BR>
<BR>
“Of course,” he said. “But a very cute one who likes the same
snack foods as me.”<BR>
<BR>
Opening the package, he offered me some. I let him pour the hard
little balls in my hand.<BR>
<BR>
“Why the note?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
“I thought it might help you,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
At home that night, I began my photo shoot of my naked fashion
doll collection with an instant camera. Looking at the pictures,
I told myself I really had something here, but if only I had a
second opinion. Whom could I ask? Not the trinity of horror: Justin,
my brother, my mom.<BR>
<BR>
Taking the photos to work with me, I put them in an interoffice
envelope with private written on the front and left them ABM’s
inbox. The last photograph was a self-portrait of me holding a
naked doll. <BR>
Three cups of coffee, two packages of pretzels and four hours
later, I got a phone call at my desk from ABM, summoning me into
his office.<BR>
<BR>
“Close the door,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
I closed the door behind me. With a great air of disbelief, he
held up the photos.<BR>
<BR>
“What is this?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
“I’m creating a coffee table book and I wanted your opinion,”
I said.<BR>
<BR>
He sighed and looked relieved.<BR>
<BR>
“What makes you think I’m qualified?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
I shrugged.<BR>
<BR>
“I needed a male perspective,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
“Ah, “he said, raising an eyebrow.<BR>
<BR>
“Do you do think they are interesting?” I asked.<BR>
<BR>
There was a pause. He cleared his throat. “What is?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
The way he was looking at me was telling me he was thinking something
else. Suddenly, I felt warm.<BR>
<BR>
“The photographs,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
“Well, I’m not interested in the dolls themselves,” he said. <BR>
<BR>
“In the positions?” I asked.<BR>
<BR>
He looked through the photos again as if he was considering a
business proposition. I stepped in closer. I noticed my note on
his desk. Alongside it was a note pad with a million scribbles
on it. He must have worked for hours trying to decipher it. I
tried not to smile. <BR>
<BR>
He held up a photo. The girl doll was straddling the boy doll
in his lap.<BR>
<BR>
“I like this one,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
“My personal favorite,” I said.<BR>
<BR>
He looked long and hard at me.<BR>
<BR>
“I probably shouldn’t be entertaining this idea, but I’m not getting
any younger,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
Leaning over his desk, he kissed me. The way he mashed his mouth
against mine was pretty exciting, and I was so take aback by the
suddenness that I stood like there a dummy letting him shove his
tongue down my throat. I hadn’t realized his hands were so massive
but alongside my head, they seemed to engulf me.<BR>
<BR>
The next thing he did really blew my mind. He hauled me over this
desk to him, my body contacting his papers and his half-eaten
club sandwich. It was sort of like in the movies where two characters
knock everything off a desk to get it on, only we didn’t flop
on the desk in a mad passionate embrace. He pulled me onto his
lap, much like his favorite fashion doll photo. <BR>
As his hands roamed for access to my bare skin, I bit his ear
lobe.<BR>
<BR>
“Oh god,” he moaned, which was a nice response, although a little
bit too loud for this point in the getting it on with your boss
stage.<BR>
<BR>
Wanting to up the stakes, I pinched his nipples through his nicely
pressed shirt.<BR>
<BR>
“Holy shit,” he cried.<BR>
<BR>
I smiled. He was such the liar. He had so not been fucked properly
before.<BR>
<BR>
Hoping off his lap for a second, I yanked up my skirt to give
him better access. I expected him to pull down my thong, but he
ripped it off. My favorite thong. Justin had touched it at the
garage sale and by the tree. I felt a pang as I stood there, looking
at it on the floor. I decided if he got his dick out in the next
three seconds, I would forgive him.<BR>
<BR>
“Come on,” I ordered, motioning at his crotch.<BR>
<BR>
He got the clue and with some major fumbling, got it out. Not
bad. I’d seen better, but it would do.<BR>
<BR>
I climbed on board, commandeering this love ship. The pace was
mine. As I thumped my pelvis against him, he seemed so overcome
by the power of my pussy; he could barely hold his hands on my
hips.<BR>
<BR>
The guy was going to come before I even broke a sweat so I grabbed
one of my breasts with one hand. The other hand found my crotch,
my fingers manipulating my clit like the expert it was. He went
right over the edge like a twelve year old finding his first porn
magazine.<BR>
<BR>
It was a race against the clock.<BR>
<BR>
“Don’t come,” I cried.<BR>
<BR>
Suddenly, the office door opened. I found myself propelled through
the air and hitting the floor with a resounding thud. Stunned,
I looked up to see his dick squirting come all over his desk drawer
as he stood to face whoever it was. I barely dodged out of the
way.<BR>
<BR>
I heard his secretary say he had a meeting in five minutes and
she left. I stared up at him in shock, watching him stuff his
business back in his pants. He didn’t even glance down at me on
the floor.<BR>
<BR>
“That was close,” he said.<BR>
<BR>
Picking myself up off the floor, I tugged down my skirt. Never
in my life had I been treated like this. A gentleman would have
protected me to the bitter end. Not cast me aside like a piece
of garbage.<BR>
<BR>
Too angry for words, I gave him a look that said go to hell, picked
up my poor ripped thong, my photos and my note. That was when
I noticed the huge smear of mustard right across the front on
my cream-colored skirt.<BR>
<BR>
In a huff, I left his office. Everyone stared at me, including
the cleaning lady. Everybody knew. No one was fooled. Of course,
I looked like I had just been fucked, with my disheveled hair
and my flushed face, because I had. Now for the rest of my professional
career I would be known as the girl who had fucked Alan Brandon
Michaels.<BR>
<BR>
I hated them all. I hated this place. What was I even doing here?
Then it hit me. I was here because I wanted my mother to approve.
I didn’t want to work here. I didn’t want to live at my mother’s.
Suddenly, the muddled cloud of childhood confusion broke away,
and why, because I’d had my bosses’ dick in me.<BR>
<BR>
At my desk, I plunked down my stuff on my desk and stopped cold.
There in front of my keyboard was the red button. Who had put
it there? I flipped it over, and with a groan recognized the florid
gold design on the front. It was my button. My mother had given
me this horribly, ugly red sweater for Christmas, and I’d worn
it once to work to make her happy. Meanwhile her coops had gotten
fifty-dollar gift certificates to their favorite stores.<BR>
<BR>
Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw ABM striding purposefully over
to my desk. I reached for my purse, convinced I was going to be
fired right this minute, not that I really cared. I would sue
his ass for harassment. I just wasn’t in the mood for any more
drama right this minute, but he merely stopped behind me and whispered
something in my ear.<BR>
<BR>
“I may have to work on being an asshole, but I do care about you,
sweetheart.”<BR>
<BR>
I met his gaze. He was serious. Nervously, I flipped my button
back over on my desk. Suddenly, it felt so warm in my hands.<BR>
<BR>
“Is that the button that told you to give me the note?” he asked.<BR>
<BR>
I nodded.<BR>
<BR>
“Good button,” he said. <BR>
<BR>
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