Morning fucking. Is he fucking with me right now? I brought him home last night, hoping to finally get some, but nope, he just fell asleep on me, too drunk out of his mind to fuck. Now my six-month itch is six-months-and-one-day old, and I have to go to work horny.
Again.
I peek my head around the corner, making sure he's moving his ass, and he is.
Slowly.
I consider throwing a shoe at him to hurry things along, but then decide to hold back.
For the moment. I’m not above chucking the shoe if need be. A nice stiletto would get his attention, right?
I finally settle on my low-cut lilac silk shirt and black pencil skirt, ‘cause I know it’ll emphasize my curves just right. My immediate boss, Dick Henningford, is a lecherous old man who forgives his female employees almost anything, as long as they wear the right clothing. I’m not above using this to my advantage.
And anyway, I have a feeling that this morning, I’ll need his forgiveness because I check my iPhone and see that I only have 65 minutes to get to work, and it takes 60 minutes to get there.
On a good day.
Oh yeah, I’m fucked-not-actually-fucked this beautiful Monday morning. Ugh.
I stick my head around the corner again and spot Dave-Mike-Troy sprawled out on the bed, snoring.
Stiletto time!
I pick up my red patent leather pair—my favs—and chuck them across the room, one after another.
“WHAT THE HELL?” Dave-Mike-Troy roars, jackknifing into a sitting position.
“Awww…you’re awake. How sweet,” I purr sarcastically. “Now will you get the fuck out of my house?”
Dave-Mike-Troy mumbles a string of swear words under his breath as he shoves his arms back into his shirt and begins buttoning it up—using words that even I don’t use very often—but I don’t care. He can call me a cunt all day long if he wants, as long as he’s leaving as he does it. Now I'm kinda glad I didn't fuck him last night.
I pull the closet door shut and begin stripping and dressing in the confined space, and not for the first time. I struggle to zip up my skirt as I bat hanging clothes out of my face; I make the resolution to clear out my closet of everything I don’t absolutely love and give it away to Goodwill or whatever.
The problem is, I love it all. I don’t work at a fashion magazine for nothing. It’s my life.
Finally dressed, only makeup and hair left, I exit my overstuffed closet to find an empty apartment. Dave-Mike-Troy has exited the building. Or, at least my part of it, and really, that’s all that matters.
After only 30 minutes in front of the mirror, which I consider to be nothing short of supersonic speed, I tap on my iPhone and check the time.
Fuccckkkkk…I only have 35 minutes left until I’m officially late to work, so by time I get downstairs, down the block, take the next train, and run down the two blocks from the subway station to Blush Magazine…
Well, I’m not sure even my push-up bra can save me today.
As I begin my hike down the three flights of stairs, I pull my iPhone out of my Kate Spade purse. Fuck this. Yeah, rent is stupidly expensive in Manhattan and I probs shouldn’t be spending money on a cab to get to work, but sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. If I don’t take a cab, I may not have a job to get to. I may as well have stayed in bed and taken Dave-Mike-Troy up on his morning fuck. At least then I wouldn’t be as horny as hell right now.
I debate between a yellow taxi cab and an Uber as I push open the front door to my apartment complex. A cab will be faster but more expensive. An Uber may not be close by. I should probably—
“Taxi! Hey, taxi!”
Some oh-my-god hot guy is flagging down a passing yellow cab. His suit is delish and his ass even better. I almost forget what I’m supposed to be doing as I take a moment to appreciate the fine specimen in front of me, but at the last moment, I remember:
I need a ride to work. Like, right now.
So I do something I’m not exactly proud of, okay? I’m not gonna write home and be all, “Hey Mom, guess what I did today? Yeah, that’s right, I fucked a guy over and stole his cab.” As I slither in past the oh-my-god hot guy and into the backseat of the cab, I even make myself the promise that I’ll post a “Sorry to the universe” apology on Instagram tonight. Complete with a sexy sad face. I can’t have karma completely biting me in the ass, right?
I slam the door close, just missing oh-my-god hot guy’s fingers and yell to the driver, “Go, go, go!” He slams on the gas and we take off, swerving into traffic, just missing a hot pink Toyota Prius.
I can’t help myself. I’m sorry, universe, but sometimes, you just have to.
I roll down the passenger side window and hang my head out of it, looking back at the guy and waving madly at him, a Cheshire grin on my face.