Work Text:
COSMOPOLITAN Life
by MJ
mjr91@aol.com
From "Advice for the Cosmo Girl":
1. Work is a great place to meet men.
2. All of the good ones are married.
3. Seeing a married man means never having to wash the dishes.
4. Seeing a married man means that you will have no life.
5. If you already have no life, the married man is perfect.
6. Men love to see you in your best outfits. And out of them.
7. Their wives like to see you with some other man.
8. A married guy hopes you'll be the jungle animal his wife isn't.
9. Don't ask the married man when he'll leave his wife. He won't.
10. Any married guy who would leave his wife will leave you.
I adore "Cosmo." You learn so much reading it that you can't learn anywhere else. And so much of it is, or was, true. You might not think that I'm the "Cosmo" type; I don't look like a "Cosmo Girl" by any stretch of the imagination. But it's still a useful rag. So full of survival tips about men and relationships that you really do need to know. Helen Gurley Brown should be declared a living saint. And the articles about being a married man's mistress that "Cosmo" has run are better than almost anything except its hideously funny articles that pretend to be about the TRUTH about Lesbians…and its rather more accurate pieces about truly spectacular fellatio techniques. It's true. That article from last November…well, it works. You will drive a man wild in bed if you do that. Guaranteed. It's worked every time I've tried it.
The J. Edgar Hoover Building is a wonderful place to meet men. Of course, the number of female agents coming in has made it a little harder for some, maybe. I don't think I've ever found it difficult, though. Saint Helen is right: work is a wonderful place to meet men, especially when almost everyone around you is male. It's almost like being at a buffet line. Now, landing one of your fish is another matter. Again, Saint Helen is right. All of the good ones are married. I have never understood that. It's totally unfair and it makes me ill just thinking about it. The second the secretarial pool gets the word that any agent's marriage has gone on the rocks, the women here turn into vultures. It's anyone's guess who will get the carcass first.
Now, it requires no imagination whatsoever to realize that my Assistant Director supervisor is one of the greatest objects of lust in this building. Tall. Good-looking if you don't insist on hair. Great eyes. Shoulders that are wider than doorways tapering down to a waist that doesn't bear thinking about. I hear he won last year's highly secret but truly prestigious "Best Ass" vote among the fourth-floor voters. If that's the case, he's copped it for three years in a row. But you know, no one even knew that the world's hottest AD was even married until he'd been separated for several months. That's when that murder business with the hooker happened. Of course, he didn't do it. You didn't need a brain to know that, did you? But the surprise was the wife that crawled out of the woodwork. Yep, the best ones are married. He even begged her to reconsider the divorce that would have had the entire building tying on their collective track shoes to chase him down. Fortunately for me, I'm a great runner.
So there I am, dealing with Saint Helen's first two commandments. He could have left his wife, but he decided to try to work things out with her. That turned out to be nothing but prolonging the agony, because no sooner had they started serious marital counseling than it happened. He's seen me every day for years, but I guess he'd never really seen me, if you know what I'm saying. Hell, I'm not sure what I'm saying. First, it was the copier incident, when we collided and all of my copies spilled. He and I were both down on the floor picking up my copies, and he just looked over at me—and oh, shit. We both stared, both got incredibly red-faced, both backed off like we'd just seen a ghost. We both knew what it was, but neither of us was going to admit it. Then, the coffee mug business. More of the same. Then there came the conference in Baltimore. He asked me if I'd go with him. There really wasn't any need for me to be there, but he kept asking me to go with him. Five times. And you know, when there's a conference in Baltimore and you're at the Headquarters Office, you don't really need to book a room; you can commute.
Apparently he'd told his wife that he had to stay for the duration, which wasn't really true. Working on saving your marriage? That's not in the top ten pieces of advice—you don't lie about needing to go away, book a plush hotel room at office expense, and book the cute young thing who's accompanying you the room next to yours. Now, sure, by this time I had it figured out. Saint Helen warns you that when a married guy asks you to go away with him on a trip you don't need to go on, you should realize immediately why it is that you've been asked. This is important, because going along without being willing to get along, if you take my meaning, is very rude and very unfair to your married guy who wouldn't be going to this kind of effort without expecting to get lucky. Thank you, Mrs. Brown. This type of etiquette is invaluable for the modern office worker with a hunky married guy in their office. So while he made reservations at the Baltimore Sheraton Inner Harbor, I ran down to Victoria's Secret and bought the place out. Saint Helen also warns you about the bedwear problem. I figured I look good in black silk, so I decided to stick with that. Victoria's Secret is expensive, but it's worth it. So are a few of those scented bath gels and lotions, you know, even if they can make you smell like a fruit salad if you're not careful.
How do you pack for a business trip where your major reason for going is monkey business with your married guy? Help, Helen! You need to pack lots of things for bed. In goes the Victoria's Secret bedwear, a bottle of Chanel, the best-looking underthings I've got—more Victoria's Secret, and, since Saint Helen wants me to take no chances, some interesting condoms. Scented bath stuff, massage oil, interesting body stuff. I might have room for some real clothing, but Saint Helen says that if you play your cards right, that isn't much of a concern. I can't figure out how to pack the scented candles, but I'll think of something, I decided. No toys, sorry, Helen, but I did pack two kinds of lubricants, plain and strawberry flavored water-base that won't eat through latex. I could have gotten the peach-flavored lube, but something just said "strawberry".
So we get down to Baltimore the night before the conference starts. We're at the Inner Harbor, so gorgeous suggests one of the seafood places near the piers and going out for a couple of drinks afterwards. Now, at this point playing hard to get is ridiculous—I mean, why else are you there?—but Saint Helen says, make 'em work for it. So I reminded him that he was giving a talk on the first day and he'd better not have too much to drink; in fact, maybe he should review his notes. Far be it from me to keep him out too late and wreck his presentation, after all. So wasn't I just the world's most considerate thing, thinking about him like that? Sorry, sweetie, I wasn't thinking of you like that at all; I was thinking about you like that. Flat on your back in a king-sized bed with a couple of candles going on the nightstands, and me slithering out of my new black silk robe while crawling around on top of that chest the size of a small continent you keep hiding under the shirts at work, hot stuff.
So, you're wondering. Why throw myself at a married guy who's trying to get back with his wife? Well, any guy who says he's trying to get back with his wife and then hangs all over you like a cheap suit while asking you out of town on business isn't trying real hard, it seems to me. Besides, I wasn't exactly throwing myself; all I really had to do was breathe, if you catch my drift. It's not like I had to work at it. All I needed to do was stand there looking cute and lick my lips in front of him, and it was "let's go out of town." Helen says if I'd stuck it out longer I could have gotten a nice jewelry stash first. But you know, I'm not greedy. And I don't wear that much jewelry. All you can do with the stash from the married boys when you don't wear it is make like the Aunt in "Gigi" and save it as your nest egg.
Back to the important stuff—well, we went out for dinner, and we just stayed at the restaurant's lounge for a drink afterwards while I looked at my watch and reminded him all about his important presentation, and offered to let him run it past me back at the hotel for practice. So we headed back to the Sheraton, and upstairs, and I told him I'd love to hear his talk, but could he give me just a couple of minutes? I don't think I've moved so fast in my entire life. Outfit off. Black silk on. Black silk robe. Brush teeth, fix hair, find the Chanel and get it splashed on. Forget the candles, at least then. Condoms in the robe pocket; never take the chance your guy didn't bring them, especially if his wife did the packing.
So I knock at the connecting door between our rooms—those are a wonderful invention, you know. He comes over, and I hear him opening it—and wham. You'd think he'd never seen anything like it before—right. The way he was drooling you'd think he hadn't eaten dinner. Thank you, Helen, right again. I walk in, pretending I don't see him panting, and I curl along the edge of the bed closest to the table and chair where his computer is set up. I make these big, innocent eyes and ask him to read it to me. It's some sort of incredibly technical management analysis thing that I really don't quite follow. So I make really wide eyes and go "oh" a lot. I'm not sure if it was the going "oh" a lot or the lip licking I was doing, but I have to admit I seemed to be getting a lot more attention than I deserved considering he was supposed to be practicing his presentation. He tells me it has something to do with 'audience participation". Oh, yeah, like the audience the next day was going to have a gang bang? I don't think so. Now, this audience was all in favor of ripping off the shirt and tie and practicing the November fellatio article on the hunkus Skinnerensis across from me, but the whole damned FBI seminar better hadn't.
Anyway, our boy is evidently distracted. Well, what's to do but worry that he might have a headache from working so hard on the presentation? And if he has a headache…well, he needs a neck rub, right? So to further my pursuit of hunkus Skinnerensis, I crawl back off the bed and slither around behind his chair, reach around, and take his glasses off. Only way to get to the temples. Besides, if I do the temples, the silk robe wraps right around his face. If that doesn't get him, he's really out of it. The neck rub means I also have to undo the tie and unbutton the shirt. Covering his upper body takes a hell of a lot of white shirt, I have to tell you. But Helen would have been proud. I had him out of that shirt and tie in no time flat so I could de-stress those tired neck muscles…and shoulder muscles…and temples…and those muscles right around the collarbone…hell, the man has muscles where you don't even have muscles. And then I remembered…it's amazing how much stress you could carry in the pecs, if you think about it. So I figure, let's get in really close, pressing up against him from behind in the silk robe, and just slide those fingers straight down and massage those pecs.
You know, I'd hardly even touched his nipples before he was out of that chair and all over me. I was really afraid for a minute that he was going to tear the robe…although I sort of think it might have been fun if he had torn it. Sort of "Me, Tarzan" and all that stuff. He did manage to get it unknotted, though, and he had me on the bed and out of that robe so fast I don't think I'd finished blinking. Let me tell you, there is a wild man under that starch. Helen promised me there would be, and, as usual, she was correct.
By the way, he loved the November fellatio technique. Best regards to Helen, and tell her that the scent article was right—Chanel Pour Homme is an aphrodisiac.
Yours,
F.W.M.
Washington, D.C.
end