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Keep your pen in your pants.

A 22-year-old male friend of mine has a job where he works primarily with women. He hangs out with my friends and me and spends most of the night describing all the chicks at work that he has bagged. Being older and more experienced, my friends and I try to discourage dipping his pen in the company ink, but he doesn’t listen.

Obviously, one runs the risk of a sexual harassment lawsuit in such a situation. You could be having a hot make-out session next to the water cooler on your breaks one day, then sitting in a cold steel chair in front of hot lights answering questions from the company attorneys the next.

Not to mention the cameras peeping at you all over the workplace. You might be making your own porn and not even know it. If your boss is a schmuck, she may take it home and add it to her porn collection AND turn your ass in to the police with it. That two-faced bitch…signs your paycheck.

Now if you are banging the boss, your job is in constant jeopardy. If she doesn’t reach her quota, so to speak, your ass could be out on the street.

For a while, though, it could be the hottest situation in the universe. She spends money on perfume, so you can suck in her scent and not carry it home with you like an olfactory rash. Maybe it tickles the end of your nose as a reminder of your midday mischief while you are watching TV, teasing your tongue into licking the naked air looking for her neck.

I’m sure she wears black stilettos. She will get mighty accustomed to having you lick your way up her pencil skirt, reaching for the black and antique rose garters holding up her silk stockings. You lick at the silk, falling onto her bare skin as you run out of fabric. You are getting a raise out of it, just not the one involving her signature on your check. Yet…

You bend her over the desk as she thumbs through reports, driving your point home as her head pitches toward her swivel chair, papers crumpling under her taught silk shirt. She is still taking notes, being the consummate multi-tasker that got her where she is. Her signature scribbles off the end of the desk. Her Calvin Klein glasses fall into her chair. Her blouse buttons pop open. The copy machine picks up its frenetic pace. The fluorescent lights flicker in time with your common goal, her bullet points etching pits into the mahogany marine varnished desk.

Or at least, in this economy, all that had better happen.

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