It feels as though I’m stuck in limbo and the weight of the world is tellingly on my shoulders as I fidget mindlessly on my lunch break picking my way through a cheese ploughman’s sandwich on my Charmin Ultra throne at the back of the over-cluttered warehouse. It feels like my whole life is caving in on itself and everybody hates me, Gaylord, Jen, Ben, and that fucking weirdo stalker *Ironsack82*. What the hell do I have to do to be the good guy around here? It’s fucking mission impossible.

News broke a moment ago that Queen Jennifuck has resigned from the warehouse with immediate effect and Bens’ been hovering like a lovesick puppy for the last quarter of an hour at her perfectly parked forklift truck station and I can’t help but watch him; like a rare and intoxicating bird of paradise frolicking in the wild. I want to run over and bury my face deep into his sparsely hair-lined chest and stay there forever and a day. He, the emperor penguin and I, the egg, returning to my rightful position on a glorious pedestal of large rubber feet and extremely tantalizing cock-to-back-of-head proximity.

I scrunch up the discarded ploughman’s cardboard sandwich carton and distract myself momentarily as I furiously fiddle with the impossibly strong and evasive tag securing the bottle top of my chilled Oasis juice. And it’s then I smell it, my unmistakably cheese monger, his ora of Stilton mixed with cleaning chemicals encompass my senses instantly and send a salivating tingle through to my jaw like a soured slice of forbidden rhubarb. I find it impossible not to smile as I eagerly raise my head to meet his gaze. Yes, my love?

Without saying a word his sad beautiful brown eyes rest upon my bottle top and I’m close to spontaneously combusting as I hold my breath and watch silently as his hand brushes past mine in one fluid moment. With a brief flex of his strong and delicious wrist the bottle cap snaps free effortlessly and a mist of refreshing Oasis rises from the lip of the container in triumphant ecstasy. And I’m ready to toss myself back onto my throne and smoke a cigar in recognition.

“That was really fucking annoying me Sand, you’re like a dumb baby hitting itself with a rattle.”
Oh. “Right! Thanks a lot then!” I snap sarcastically, snatching back my bottle and tucking an invisible lock of stray hair behind my ear in frustration, mentally attempting to shield and regain my wounded ego. You really can be a heartless wanker sometimes Ben Cummings. I’ll remember this next time you want to dry hump me for frills when I’m working. You could beg me on your hands and fucking knees in just a leopard print thong and I’d still say no for five whole minutes. That would fucking teach you to being so shitty.

“Have you heard the news?” He ignores my angry glare and I can’t help but melt as his huge brown shag-me-now eyes meet mine sending my lungs into an involuntary spasm and my tongue feels as though its about to suddenly drown in my mouth as I lose the ability to swallow. Through sheer fear of choking on my own saliva I eagerly muster a higher-pitched than hoped for uh-huh and he sinks onto the toilet roll throne beside me. Jesus he smells so maturely Stilton!

Like some kind of sexual predator psychiatrist I observe him intently from my spectator box directly beside him as he begins speaking. Moving my hand hesitantly behind him I fight a virtual war in my mind over resting it reassuringly on his shoulder, around his thick muscular waist or just going straight for gold and grabbing hold of his firm and bulging thigh with just the slight flex of my fingernails, silently serenading to his penis I’m here for you!

“She won’t even answer my calls.” He mutters almost silently as he stares down into his hands, twisting and tangling such long nimble fingers, a perfect fit for a cervical-shaped glove. I drink in his proximity like a fat sea sponge hitting the ice cold water for the very first time. I could so totally pounce on you right now my beautiful Ben, then you’d soon forget that perfect bimbo and vow in an instant to spend the rest of your amazing life with me, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, as my man slave forever.

“She said its over, how can we be over? Us?” Shhh my sweet beau I long to silence his deliciously cushioned plump lips, let us savour this moment. My fingers tingle with pent up enthusiasm as I unexpectedly bounce a hand clumsily onto the base of his neck; it falls just north of a comforting shoulder to cry on gesture, but not quite high enough to threaten strangulation and his eyebrows rise immediately in recognition, shit what do I do? I can’t move, I’m frozen staring at him like a rabbit caught in headlights, headlights of pole-dancing-on-a-nightclub-podium lust as his eyes meet mine suspending us in such sweet sweet paradise for all of two seconds before he shrugs me off and leans forward onto his elbows with his head helplessly in his hands. That beautiful hair, it’s calling to me to run my fingers through the luscious silky brown locks, goading me into giving it a cheeky brisk tug to fire up his libido and send us both into discovery channel style love making on the factory floor.

“It’s only ever been her, she’s all I’ve ever wanted. Jen’s my happy ever after.” Fucking hell, he’s sobbing, are you actually kidding me? Is there a hidden camera behind the bulk stack of sardines behind me? Well that’s a kick to the metaphorical c-u-next-Tuesday right there if ever I had one, and the roaring flames of my burning loins are all at once extinguished and offended at the same time with every childish and ugly whimper that bumbles from his gaping mouth. What a fucking loser.

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Tracy Kiss

Social influencer, Bodybuilder, Mother, Vegan
London, UK

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