So I’m standing in the hallway waiting for the elevator to take me down so I can have a much needed nicotine fix. I’m tired from a long night out, my eyes are dry and itchy, I’m just getting over a cold and I’m miserable in general. Needless to say the lift can’t come quick enough.
Then I hear the bathroom door open and close and the soft rustle of wingtips on carpet. The skinniest man ever to don a shirt, tie and slacks is walking past me and he’s on the phone – which means he was on the phone while still in the bathroom a HUGE no-no.
He’s having the most interesting conversation as well.
“Yes… yes, yes… yes. Yes…. yes… yes.”
He’s walking kind of slowly too, so it seems to take forever. All he keeps saying is “yes.” But the sheer amount of times he’s saying it and with such monotony it’s beginning to sound like the worst phone sex you could imagine.
“Do you like my body, Harold?”
“Are you horny?”
“Does that feel good?”
As he rounds the corner and heads into his office the faint whimper of a what I believe to be orgasm on polyblend slacks is heard. Ah, Monday.