They Do This On Purpose, Right?

My fifty something female boss, an infinite source of masturbatory material over the seven years I've worked for her, came into my office the other day for a brief meeting. As she walked in, I noticed something hanging from her mouth: a lollipop. One of those Tootsie Pop things with the chocolate in the middle.

Anyway, she's asking me these questions about some project I honestly never did a bloody thing on, and as I try to formulate my alibi, she's working that goddam lollipop over like a Theatre District pro. And every time I think I've got something coherent to say, she starts pushing that thing into her mouth and pulling it out and pushing it back in and my mind turns to loose change. And she starts raising an eyebrow, as if she's disturbed at my inability to produce an adequate response, and all I want to do is scream HOW THE FUCK CAN I THINK STRAIGHT WHEN THE BOSS IS FELLATING A PIECE OF CANDY IN FRONT OF ME? But she keeps on working it, rolling it across her lips, biting at it, then moving her tongue along it--showing this fucking confection more action than I've seen in about three months.

Then, without missing a beat, she lays down the law, informs me of my deadline and what she expects of me, and punctuates it by crunching off the top of the pop with her teeth. And walking out of my office.

I gotta be honest: I'm tempted to fuck up that deadline. Y'know, just to see what the punishment might be like.

The Office Perv, Volume 312

You may or may not recall this post of mine from about a year ago:

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.

Well, the woman in question unceremoniously tendered her resignation last week, and one of my pals in HR (keep your friends close and enemies closer, people) informed me that during the exit interview, she noted me--Me!--as one of the reasons she was leaving. "I think he's got a sort of ass fetish," is what she supposedly said, and I am thrilled beyond belief that this very line might be making its way into my personnel file.

I've got a sort of ass fetish, ladies. Watch the fuck out!