It's Tough Out There for a Gentleman

So I'm walking out of the mens' room yesterday at the office, and just ahead of me, walking out of the womens' room, is one of the premier office hotties. Let's call her L.

Naturally, my eyes descend to her hindquarters -- which are quite remarkable, I might add -- where I see, to my horror, that she's trailing about a foot and a half of toilet paper from the back of her skirt.

And suddenly I'm faced with a dilemma:

If I call her on it, I'm the perv who's checking out a fellow worker below the waist (which, any good HR person will tell you, simply isn't allowed. It's best to think of your coworkers as disembodied heads that you only need make eye contact with to ask about the McClasky file or Sheila in Purchasing's birthday).

If I don't... well, I guess I'm a sort of tool for letting her walk onto the floor, amongst all her catty female colleagues, with a paper tail.

So I cleared my throat and called her on it. And she swiped it away, embarrassed but thankful.

As I saw it, I'm already the office perv. I sure as fuck don't want to be a tool as well.

Another Reason Friday Rocks

Today is Friday, which is casual day at my place of employ. This means that, even as I type these words, pretty much every woman from 18 to 52 who works in our financial division is wedging herself into low-slung, too-tight jeans. This is not a day for me to be making decisions that could affect the fate of our organization or my position within it. That's what Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday are for. Today, I just slip it into neutral, and soak it all in.

The trick to getting the full show: Slide a manila folder under your arm. That's your "hall pass," so to speak. As you wander aimlessly through any place of business, so long as you're carrying a manila folder, peeps figure you've obviously transporting something of grave importance. This is particularly critical to getting into the IT wing, where many a cute young lass waits. And very likely bent over a server. Bonus!

Er, hold my calls.

By Any Other Name...

So I happen to overhear a conversation between two female coworkers this morning, and one of them starts talking matter-of-factly about her boyfriend's "dink."

"Dink"?

Honey, I wanted to say, you do your man no favors by calling it a "dink."

A newborn baby has a dink. Possibly some midgets. But not any male over the age of 16. That's about as sexy as some chick getting me all hot n' bothered, then asking if she can hold my "pee pee." Just like that ::finger snapping sound::, the tower collapses and the game's over. Thank you, and good night.

For the record, I use "cock." Not "dick" or "wang" or "Love Missile F-11." Okay, maybe there's the odd occasion where I'll use "Little Jimmy O'Sullivan," but that's typically relegated to St. Patty's Day. Or, y'know, when I'm on "bizness."

Similarly, I like it when a woman refers to her holiest of holies as her "pussy." And I'm man enough to admit that "cooter" is pretty hot too. Yeah, that's right. I said "cooter." Represent!

As If They Needed Another Reason Not to Send Me to the Conference...

I find that whenever I'm at any kind of Conference, whenever there's a female speaker at the podium, all I can think about is how it would feel to go down on her.

Seriously. From the minute she steps on the stage to the minute she leaves, I just sit there, tracing the outline of her legs with my eyes, trying to pinpoint exactly where on her body I'd begin my descent, and mentally conjuring what her reactions might be.

Have I reached the point of irreversible perversion? Do other guys do this? Do women do this when watching men speaking at a conference?

She's the Boss.

My name is Ken. I work smackdab in downtown Boston. And I totally want to have sex with my boss. Good morning.

My boss is about 56 years old. Blonde, roughly 5'3". Prolly 100 pounds soaking wet and holding a sack of potatoes. She is a mother of four from one of the city's affluent suburbs. And, holy mother of god, I want to bury my face between her legs with an intensity that only guys who've been in prison for twenty years can appreciate.

Why do I wanna bone a woman who is roughly ten years younger than my mother? Because she's my boss. Sure, she's also an incredibly hot 56-year-old professional who has her hair done on Newbury Street and depends on a team of twenty five Vietnamese women in Newton to keep her nails appropriately chiseled. But, dude, fucking the boss? That's gotta be bonus points the likes of which my feeble mind could never comprehend.

It's also never going to happen. Because she's the boss. And she didn't get to be the boss by throwing herself at goofy, pale, nerdy subordinates.

Not that there isn't something there. We've been on countless business trips together, during which jokes about sex and making out and getting fingered fly fast and furious [that last one being a story she told me about her high school prom that had me up all night in my hotel room jerking off to the dulcet tones of CNN]. Once, while we were setting up our company's booth at a trade show, she bent over and inadvertently backed up squarely against my crotch, then stood there for a beat, noting, "Hey, I hope you at least buy me dinner after this." And, voila, I had enough masturbatory fuel for, oh, ten months.

But, again, I can fantasize all I want; I ain't gettin' in the boss' three-hundred dollar pants. Although I would like to assure her that letting me bone her in the Executive Conference Room wouldn't shift the balance of power. In fact, it would probably make me an even better employee, as I see it.

Perhaps, in the dark recesses of her mind, she's thought of this as well. And is even considering throwing me a bang before her retirement. In any event, I'll be here, waiting for the Boss to come to her senses and swoop me up in her streamlined Mercedes for a night of passionate snogging and backseat screwing.

In the meantime, I may try my luck with the 62-year old Haitian cleaning woman. I see the way she looks at me...

Open Letter to Myself: Please Don't Go Drinking With the Crazy Girls from the Office

Dear Ken: Next week, you will be representing your company at "the conference." While you are at "the conference," you will be in the company of several coworkers, all of them female, between the ages of 23 and 46. These girls, as you well know, like to drink. Often to excess. This note is to remind you that no matter how much you want to, you should not go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Part of the reason is that you know how you get. A coupla beers and suddenly you're going on and on about how you've mastered the art of eating pussy. How you gently suck the clit and hold it between your lips, appying gradual pressure while briskly racing your tongue across it. These are not the sort of things you should be saying to women you work with. So please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Also, you know they like to dance. Remember that night they pulled you onto the floor with them at the Hong Kong? If you go drinking with them, you'll invariably end up dancing with them. Which means Loretta from Customer Service will sashay up to you and arch her not entirely bad ass at you, inviting you to start dry humping it to the dulcimer tones of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." And you'll do it, because you're drunk and, well, it's a female ass. And, because you're a heterosexual dude, you'll begin to stiffen. And suddenly Loretta from Customer Service is giving you a hard-on. And that's not what you want to happen, dude. It just isn't. So please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Remember, also, that these girls never know when to quit. And because, as Tom Waits once sang, "the night does funny things inside a man," you'll invite them all up to your room after last call. Because you've got "the big room." The Executive Special that comes with a big-ass conference table and a wet bar. And you'll imagine them all fighting over who gets to blow you first, but they're really just coming to drain your minibar. And the closest you come to naked flesh is when Janet inexplicably pulls you into the bathroom with her, locks the door, and forces you into the shower and closes the curtain so she can take a whiz. When you come back out, you see Frances polishing off a bottle of champagne which, according to the Hyatt mini-bar pricelist, just cost you sixty dollars. You don't need to be explaining such expenses to your boss, so please, don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

Dude. Seriously. Do you really want Loretta telling people that she gave you a hard-on? Just don't even give it a chance to happen. Don't get yourself into such situations. There's probably a good movie on. Hell, get a porno and spank it till the wheels fall off. But don't go drinking with the crazy girls from the office. There's just nothing good that can come of it.

Note: The conference was actually last week. And, yeah, I went drinking with the crazy girls from the office.

"Hey, You With the Boobs. And the Eyes. And the Hair..."

There's a girl at my office with the biggest rack ever.

I mean, there's simply no other way to put it. Hindenburg-huge. Preposterously gargantuan. Incapable of being restrained by the strongest of sports bras or tightly-knit sweaters.

They are, for lack of better terminology, ginormous.

And everyone knows this. Her boss knows it. Her coworkers. Every guy in the mailroom knows "Sarah with the boobs." Christ, the vending machine that spits out our coffee and candy bars knows it.

Folks, her boobs are fucking huge.

So the other day, myself and Sarah and her boobs and a few other coworkers find ourselves at the local "TGIFridays" -- where the good times are incessant! -- for that most gut-wrenching of office niceties, the birthday lunch. And one of the girls is showing off her new tinted contacts, and she's apparently quite happy because she'd rather men focus on her eyes than what she deemed her "beak-like nose."

And Sarah chimes in that she's quite proud of her own deep blue eyes, because, and I quote, "they're the first things guys notice about me."

Not on this planet, hon. Not in this lifetime.

But it did get me thinking. Are we fooling ourselves with what we truly think are our best features? I recall a former Kennette who had a model-quality ass, the kind that snarls traffic and turns men to stone at first glance [how I let that one slip away is still a sore subject]. But she was convinced her impossibly curly blonde hair was what drew myself and countless other guys in.

Hell, I even fool myself. Hours of sweating my balls off in the gym have convinced me that my arms and chest are what keep the ladies coming. But if you ask the ladies, they'll probably tell you what they really dig is how I always pick up the bar tab.

My Brilliant Career... in Romance

I don't smoke. Unless I've been drinking. When I'm drunk, man, just hand me those fucking cigarettes because I'm gonna tear right through 'em. Problem is, the combination of stomach full of booze and lungs full of smoke invariably leads to barfing or, worse, barfing on someone. And we can't have that.

Right outta college, I worked for a small medical supply company. Every Friday night, some knucklehead would go out and grab a case of beer, and we'd sit and drink for a few hours at the end of the workdasy until we went off to our respective better lives. One night, me and an older woman --one who intrigued me, might I add -- stuck around, drinking and getting increasingly touchy-feely. She started smoking so, being half in the wrapper, I asked her for one. About an hour later, the only ones left, we started making out. Then things got a little more heated, as she grabbed right for the Captain. We moved into the office area, and I sat her up on the Xerox machine, prepared to give her the oral stimulation of her life.

Turns out I got about two licks in when the smoke and nicotine and cheap beer hit me like a sledgehammer. No denying it: I had to puke. But, man, is there a worse time to throw up then right after you've started going down on some woman? I mean, what kind of message is that sending?

So I summoned my last ounce of jedi strength, kept the puke down for a good four minutes, then excused myself, claiming I had to take a massive whiz. I ran down the hall, ducked into the men's room, puked my brains out, then returned a few minutes later. At that point, she was slipping back into her jeans, the mood effectively trampled. But, hey, better she think I can't hold my liquor than god knows what she might have thought if I just broke loose and threw up after getting between her legs.

On the Night Shift

Back in January, realizing that huge chunks of my income were being siphoned away toward electricity, gas, food, hookers, whiskey, child support, alimony and that damn blackmailer who's got the photos of me with the shop-vac, I took a part time job. It wasn't much; just working the desk at a hotel within a couple minutes of my place. It was time alone to read, write and reflect, hand the occasional guest a room key, and get paid.

A couple months later, I got a promotion at my day job. But I kept the hotel gig. Because I dig money, and there's always room for extra. And also, the hotel I'm working at is a veritable hub of sexual activity.

Seriously. In the four months I've been working there, I've heard literally 5,000 excuses from guests for having to check out early. As in roughly three hours after they checked in. One guy said his big sales meeting was canceled. Another said one of his kids came down with the flu. Yet another said he needed a place closer to the city. All of them ushered a female pal out the door as they shuffled toward the exit.

I've seen the married couples looking to spice up their lives with a little "hotel action." I've seen escorts and dommes stop in to set up shop for the weekend. I even had one guy ask me where he might find a women who would come to his room and let him wash her ass with Windex.

I also get propositioned by the occasional private investigator. The guy who comes in, drops a fifty dollar bill on the desk in front of me, and asks if I've seen anyone check-in under the name "peachy peach" or "kissy kiss." Because I am a man of some moral fiber, I never take the bait. Who's dogging who isn't really my business, so long as they leave a valid credit card and don't bother their neighbors.

And in my four months of employ at this hotel, I've learned the following things:

1) If you're looking to make an adulterous connection in a local hotel/motel, don't enter and leave at the same time as your companion. It seems such a simple thing, but I've seen more buffoons waltz in and out with the object of their illicit affection on his/her arm, creating a private investigator's wet dream. Intent and opportunity is half the argument, folks; always make sure one of you exits the hotel, say, fifteen minutes after the other.

2) Hotel sex is apparently way, way hotter than regular "at home" sex. And why not? When you're in a hotel, that ice cream smeared on the sheets, the whipped cream on the rug and the whip-marks in the wall are the cleaning crew's problem. At home, they're just a nagging reminder of what a freak you are.

Not the Hiring Kind

So last week, I went out with some folks from the office. Never a good idea. But in this case, there were some hot girls from the finance department so I figgered it'd be good to tag along.

So we're out and about and drinking and laughing and all is good. And I found myself having a nice conversation with a pretty girl I'd seen passing about in the halls but never spoke to. And about three hours into the night, she kinda laughs out loud, moves in a bit, and, apparently emboldened by alcohol, says to me, "You know, me and the girls have a name for you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. We call you 'hard-on guy.' 'Cause you're almost always walking around the office with a hard-on."

Anyone out there know of a place that's hiring? Because apparently it's time for me to move on.

About Last Night...

The thing about traveling extensively for work is that I find myself in hotel rooms. A lot. Mostly, things are pretty uneventful. Other times, thanks to fire alarms, whiskey benders and new friends found in the lobby bar, they get interesting.

Last week, I stumbled back to my room after a few too many drinks and flopped down on the bed, still in my shoes and tie, fumbling with the phone to arrange a wake-up call for the next morning's sales meeting. About fifteen minutes in, I hear a steady banging against the wall. Then I hear moaning. Female moaning. I am intrigued, but it's nothing I haven't heard before. So I try to get to sleep.

But she won't stop. In fact, she gets louder. And louder. And the thumps against the wall start coming with extreme prejudice. So I bury my head under the pillow, but I can't escape it. Them she starts yelling things, like "Don't you fucking stop," and "I will ride your cock until it explodes" and "Is there no one on this planet who will challenge me?" (I'm a little hazy on that last one, but that's the best of my recollection.)

This went on all night. Blood-curdling screams, ecstatic moans, bedposts pounding. Eventually, it stopped, when either her partner died or I blacked out. But the damage was done. I was a wreck as the wake-up call arrived, and there's nothing worse than losing sleep over fucking that you're not actively participating in.

I showered, downed a couple Red Bulls and dragged my ass to the door. As I opened it, The Screamer next door opened hers to wheel a cart into the hallway. She was pretty, blond, probably in her late 30s, and while I couldn't see her body under her robe, I assumed she was made of mostly metallic parts. She looked at me without a whiff of embarrassment; I gave her a smile and a nod and headed down the hall to the elevators.

A few hours later I'm in the meeting and jabbing myself in the thigh with a pen to stay awake. Then our Executive Vice President says he wants to introduce our new west coast sales rep. And in walks The Screamer, all dolled up in heels that made her look about fifteen feet tall. She didn't seem to recognize me, and if she did, she was totally unfazed, as if damn proud of her fucking abilities.

She talked about her experience, her performance targets, her sales strategies, blah blah blah. All I wanted to know was the name of the lucky guy she was pulverizing last night--and if his health and/or whereabouts could be confirmed.

Not much of a story, I know. But I'm always happy when the magical worlds of business and fucking collide.

Men and Women Are Different, Vol. 3782-B

What is that bizarre bit of circuitry that women seem to have that allows them to switch a guy from "someone we want to screw" to "someone we want to hang out with an drink tea"?

Last week, once again, I found myself traveling on biz, touching down in the magic city of Chicago. The third night there, I met up with a former Kenette for pizza and a couple beers. We hadn't seen each other in a while -- at least five years. Back in the day, we were both in kinda/sorta relationships, but still couldn't keep our hands off each other. Whenever we got together, we'd have a few beers, then talk would instantly turn to my mouth on her, then that talk would become reality. And I mean heated, Mick-Jagger-on-groupie style reality.

Over the days leading up to our dinner, I figgered there may be a chance for a repeat performance. But within the first few minutes of her arrival, I knew it wasn't happening. Lots of talk about sports and her new job. And the new guy she kinda/sorta likes. And how her mom just got settled into a new place in Florida. My mind's trolling the gutter; hers is in Sunshine City.

And after a while, I felt a bit embarrassed about having to hold down my hard-on with both hands. She had grown up and moved on, and I was still the booze-addled pervert, desperate for another taste.

I sent her an e-mail the next day, saying how awesome she looked and how great it was to see her and, again, how fucking awesome she looked. And she just responded with a, "great to see you, too! Man, was that pizza good" sorta response.

So I've gone from "fuck" to "friend." And I move on. I keep movin' on.

The Girl, The Office and The All-Day Hard-On

This morning, I found myself pulling into the office lot at the exact same time as the smokeshow of a redhead who works for the company upstairs. So, naturally, I fiddled with the radio, checked on my lunch, rearranged my briefcase and basically did everything in my power to delay my exit from the car to ensure that I'd be walking into the building behind her. Which, of course, is the prime viewing location.

Her ass, as usual, did not disappoint, maintaining its ridiculously perfect heart-shape as she moved into the building, while her pants -- made of the luckiest fibers on earth -- fought valiantly to contain all that awesome, flexing tight against her curves with each and every step.

It was just what I needed to start the day. But it left me with a painful, day-long hard-on.

You see, once her ass got all up in my head, I couldn't shake it out. Through every meeting, every PowerPoint presentation, every conference call, every excruciating webinar, it haunted me, shifting easily back and forth, hypnotizing me. Reminding me that something far, far better than all of this was just right up the stairs and six cubes to the left. And it kept me stiff for basically the entire day.

Moving about the office in such a condition can be a challenge. Bad enough they all know think I'm the office perv. I don't want to be the guy with the perpetual boner, skulking through the halls and leaning a bit too comfortably against the candy machine.

My best friend today was a FedEx box. Yup, just your basic cardboard shipping package. I kept it by the door of my office, and whenever I needed to go somewhere, I simply grabbed it, positioned it confidently over my crotch, and headed out. Sure, by the end of the day the mail guy wanted to shiv me for moving in on his turf. But it was better than being the guy it's not safe to take the elevator with.

As for Red, well, I had plans. Plans that involved busting upstairs, running to her cube, displaying the majesty of my hard-on as it bulged uncomfortably against my flat-front chinos. Telling her I wanted her so bad I could taste her, and begging her to pull off the shackles of Corporate America and run wild with me in the streets, or at least down rte. 128.

Alas, I settled for sneaking off to the men's room after the office emptied out and jerking myself within an inch of my life. But the thought was there.

There's No Sex in the Copy Room. None.

Oh, work holiday party. How I loathe and love you.

This year found me at the work party chatting up a colleague who left years ago to move closer to his parents. He's (biologically) old enough to be my father. He's married. But the cadence of his voice and the twinkle in his eye melts me into a puddle by the time the open bar begins to shut down. He grabs me by my waist and pulls me close to him, asking me why I'm there by myself.

"No date this year?" he asks.

"When do I ever have a date?" I ask him rhetorically, eyes twinkling. He produces an exaggerated pout as I whirl away from him, beer in hand. I smile. We talk about music and television and how much work has sucked in the past year.

But now I'm home, alone, and I can't help but think about the fullness of his lips, the way his hand felt on my hips, and the way he eyed the cleavage visible in my dress. All I wanted was to take him home with me. But now I'm here. Alone. Awesome.

Greetings from the Office Perv

So in the hopes of getting employees "healthy" and "engaged" and "clad in gym shorts," our company unveiled an in-house fitness center last year. While the thought of working out next to Clive from marketing didn't quite appeal to me, I realized it was free and probably the easiest way to keep on a workout schedule, so I succumbed.

After a couple months, I noticed one of the many hot chicks from accounting working out roughly around the same time I did. And said chick developed a pattern of going from one machine to the next without wiping down that telltale smudge of ass-sweat, which is in direct violation of all known gym etiquette.

Myself, well, I could care less. And actually found it a bit of a turn-on. But others didn't care for it. Like Mel, a coworker who, for some reason, felt insulted by the fact that this impossibly hot woman would dare leave an ass imprint on the recumbent bike seat. So he lodged a complaint with HR.

Problem is, when hot chick was called in by HR to discuss the matter, she inadvertently assumed the accusing party to be me, and said, according to my reliable source, "Are you kidding me? That dog's probably just upset because he wasn't able to lick it up without someone seeing him."

My reputation at the office: solid as ever, folks.