So I’ve finally acheived a long awaited goal in my career.  No, I didn’t get a promotion or a raise–I fucked my boss instead.  This is the story of how I secured my place in my company without actually having to put any more effort in to my actual job.

Yesterday afternoon, I was supposed to meet up with the regional manager of my store, two of my coworkers and Eric for an early dinner celebrating our past month of stellar sales (See?  I contribute to productivity!).  In flirty text messages back and forth between Eric and I, we decided to meet up before because of my inability to navigate my way around Brooklyn (Manhattan is more my territory). I arrived at his apartment almost expecting something to happen and had prepared myself by wearing my cutest underwear and arriving a solid 45 minutes early.  It was on like Donkey Kong.

Within five minutes of me arriving at Eric’s apartment, we were making out on his worn in leather couch and ripping off each other’s clothing.  Holy shit.  I am screwing my superior!  Amazing.

Well, it was for the first few minutes anyway.  After the novelty of fucking my boss began to wear off, I began to take the situation for what it was:  I was sleeping with my almost 30 year old boss on a couch…in an apartment that he shared with his girlfriend.  And he was also a bunny fucker, jackhammering away.  Not appealing.  After 7 unsatisfying minutes of this, I realized that he was expecting some sort of vocalization of my satisfaction…so I faked it.  I mean there was no way I was going to be able to finish with a framed picture of this fool’s girlfriend ten feet away.  Thankfully, not much after my “performance”, he was done with his. It was over at last! Praise Jesus.

Okay.  With not even 15 minutes to get myself together, Eric and I had to throw our clothes back on and run.  To a company dinner.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  It wasn’t until we arrived at the restaurant and I caught a glimpse of myself in the restaurant lobby mirror that I realized what a mess I actually was.  Anyone who believes that after-sex hair is appealing is seriously fucking deranged.  It is not.

I looked what I like to call “a hot-ass mess”.  My hair was messy, partially tangled and altogether horrifying.  My eyeliner was smudged and not in the smoky eye way–it was more of the morning-after-prostitute way.  I also caught a whiff on myself of a scent I lovingly refer to as “eau de WHORE”.  This is absofuckinglutely the LAST time I go to any work function after having sex with my boss!  I can only take this as an opportunity to learn!  Or at least next time I should bring a comb and body spray to my next rendez-vous.

Moral of the story:  It’s probably not the best idea to screw your boss.  On the plus side, in today’s shaky economy, a girl can’t do enough for job security.