Confessions Of An Office Flirt

BlueSkyImage / (Shutterstock.com)
BlueSkyImage / (Shutterstock.com)

Pleased to meet you. I’m the office flirt. Despite trying to act all innocent and funny, there are a few subconscious thoughts I’ve planted in your head that make you want to ride me on the confession-room table. A few of those thoughts I planted myself, actually. I haven’t fucked you yet, but you’re welcome. You’re very welcome.

First things first: introductions. I’m a handsome dude. I’m even more so aware of it now that I’m no longer a fat kid who had been likened to a bent spoon in grade school. I’m a 6’2”, 167-pound, dark-haired pretend-ingénue with cheekbones I newly discovered that fail to be thwarted by my new staple diet of carb-fueled protein shakes and pizza sandwiches, which is two slices of pizza with mayo and a tomato slice stuck in the middle. (I’m a fat kid by heart, and I’m not much afraid of the prospect of eventually growing to have bitch tits.) I wear checkered shirts and once my blue rim non-prescription glasses come off, I am a few drinks short of being a work of wonder.

I am currently in three relationships—a work girlfriend, with whom I regularly drive to work after a satisfactory morning fuck…a one-that-will-get-away soul mate, precariously stuck in between the habitat of being a basic bitch and *AHEM* “liking” me too much not to give a try to my back-alley bars and leftfield hip-hop…and someone’s high-school sweetheart, whom I’m banging even though I graduated from college a while ago. These are my stories of quarter-life debauchery. And like every other man-child playing with three women, yes, I am some other girl’s broken toy. That’s at least what I got from this psychology major chick that claims we didn’t make out. After telling her she was the third in her friends’ group for me, that conclusion does not seem so farfetched.

I was fucking my work girlfriend last night—not because I enjoyed the act itself with her, but because I was planning on wearing my new perfume, Tommy Hilfiger’s Freedom. After buying it I remember sitting at the mall with my best friend and his long-term girlfriend and coddling it like a child, caressing it and telling it how many women it’s going to get me to fuck during my annual leave to the seaside this weekend. Not due to obliviousness, but to general lack of empathy to my newly developed douchiness, my two companions continued their casual conversation about friends they left back in college and their whereabouts now. The girl took care of me like a child, passing me KFC burgers as the boy looked at me with disbelief, ridicule, and a touch of envy at every word I spoke regarding girls. That’s what you get from your best friend and his girlfriend. They were genuinely happy when I exclaimed how awesome my life was, though. Things like that you don’t say to people, but at that moment I felt relief. They no longer felt me hopeless and inconsolable after my bad string of breakups. It was like parents smiling at a child throwing rocks at windows. It was all OK to them as long as the child could walk again.

After my daily workout I donned my red checkered shirt, and, smelling like something inexplicably lulling and at the same time refreshing, I went out to my terrace and lit my second cigarette for this week. I needed some musk to my odor, even though work girlfriend didn’t like the scent of cigarettes. I was bent on dumping her soon anyway to get a new one in the rotation, so this experiment’s outcome didn’t matter much.

She hadn’t seen me in a couple of days. We spoke on Monday, but I was too closed off and distant. Her blabbering bored me, so my thoughts became flatulent and my stare wandered. When I moved past my best friend I made a gritty, disdained face at him, signaling how much I’m not into it as she walked behind me. When we were at the mall he told me he hadn’t noticed my expression. I guess he isn’t into obvious hints.

Without prior warning that night I called her saying that I’m outside in the rain. I pulled out a scared puppy-dog routine and referenced an inside joke about lightning striking close to me. I waited for five minutes outside in the rain, a step away from the eaves. I was wet and bored out of my mind, so I kept scrolling Tinder girls and messaged high-school sweetheart. Bad part was that raindrops kept spilling on my phone. A step away from the eaves. But I wanted the rain to soak on me, just so I could pull her even closer to my body from the offset in search for warmth, which I hoped she would misinterpret for affection. I saw the fear and distrust in her eyes when she saw my blank stare on Monday. That night I decided to woe her again. She deserved it. Not by me, but she did deserve it. That night I was the only person who would do that to her. So I did.

Upon entering the door I kissed her gently on the lips while grasping her cheek gently. This built immediate rapport back, as she clung closer to my body. At first she was timid, barely introducing her tongue. Work girlfriend is a frugal kisser. I pushed her to the wall gently as I began to go down from her cheek to her neck with my lips. Then she uttered my name. It’s a tattletale way to know you matter to someone. People don’t use names. Ever. That’s why remembering someone’s name is so helpful for building rapport and attraction early on. I remember watching the video with a madman called Jeffy on the Internet telling me this. But work girlfriend wanted to pull away. After a few further steps of escalation I let her.

We barely spoke. She palmed my face pushing me away once and then asked me how my day went. We exchanged pleasantries and continued to get at it. Then she rode me whilst I was undressing my red checkered shirt with her red skimpy nightgown. I unbuttoned it and after thrusting and slapping her ass, she came like clockwork. If this isn’t a Freedom ad, I don’t know what is. When I pull out to put her on her back I put down my shirt on the dresser. She grabbed me impatiently and gave me an amply flavored-with-tongue appreciation kiss before I even knelt to slide in again. That kind of overt overkill affection lets you know how well you’ve done your job.

Half an hour later we were in bed and after some tedious play of prodding and slapping we were at it again. That time it wasn’t as steamy for me. Although I haven’t seen her grinding on me like that. Intimidating tongue play and groping turned into another orgasm for her and an untreated limp dick for me. She does not do it for me much anymore. In the morning it wasn’t any different. I’ll end up dumping her. Semi-erection producers aren’t commitment material.

I work in a henhouse of an office, which means my acting career started right after my first coffee that my colleagues saw me share with work girlfriend. Later on that morning I took a new colleague to coffee and chatted with her all morning, ending in a blushing grin when she passed by my desk. She has a boyfriend. Big whoop. Then after a trip in the bathroom I noticed a suspicious stain on my wrinkled shirt. I didn’t say I wasn’t the villain in this piece. I’m the office flirt. Pleased to meet you. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Related

More From Thought Catalog