Men are Pigs Part I

Okay, this will turn out to be a two-part story, partly because I know guys just take a few sentences to – ahem – please oneself, and partly because the first part of the story is essentially true, the second part is all story.

Angie and I were in the shop, and as usual, there were few customers. The Autumn rush to purchase girl's uniforms was over, and school had started. Like clockwork, they opened their doors at 10:00 am, and also like clockwork, they would probably see their first customer around lunchtime. The mornings were theirs to chit chat.

There was no polite way to put this: Angie and I were sluts. I had been working at the shop for about six months, having been promoted from an administrative job in the other office location. I liked the promotion because it meant more money and less oversight – sometimes a frightful combination. I actually did not hire Angie – she was hired by the Executive Director. She was still in school (part time) and worked hours in the shop for schoolbooks and spending money.

She was years younger than me, but she seemed to be the master, I the pupil when it comes to our sexual exploits. And we talked about our sexual exploits during those times in the office before anyone opened the door, ringing the bell fastened to the ceiling.

Today, we were talking about men – as usual. And the conversation went something like this:

" . . . . and as he was in the bathroom, I started looking around his place. He told me he is in the process of getting a divorce, but I knew differently. Someone called during sex, and I could see panic in his eyes. Like he was in danger of getting caught."

"Leesa," Angie replied, "you are too much. Did you really think he was getting a divorce?"

"No," I admitted, "or else I would not have been fucking the bastard. I don't want some man getting between me and my husband."

"Honey," continued Angie, "like I have been saying, most men – married or single – just want to mount your skinny ass." Angie always made reference to my skinny ass. She was a little more rotund, and she liked the contrast.

"Angie, you know you don't have the same problems or obligations I have. I have to be careful."

"What 'cha mean?", Angie looked puzzled. "It is not like most guys want to spend the time and energy prying you away from your man as long as they get their samples."

Angie laughs. She is always so blunt, and she has a philosophy when it comes to men – that all men are dogs.

"Yeah, I know, Angie, all men are dogs."

Angie shifts positions, and I know she is going to say something of note.

"Leesa, actually, I think all people – men and women – will do almost anything as long as they know they won't get caught."

I thought about this for a minute. And then I thought about it some more, thinking of examples.

"Angie, sorry to burst your bubble, but I think you are full of it." In my mind, I said she was full of crap.

Then she does something unexpected. She kissed me, and I returned her kiss, hesitantly at first, and then wholeheartedly.

As our lips parted, Angie smiled.

"See, Leesa, you kissed me. You are not a lesbian or bi, but you just kissed me right now."

She wiped the saliva off of her lips with her forefinger and thumb, and all I was thinking was that I wanted to lick her fingers. Oh, my. Then reality came crashing it – she did not feel that way about me, she was making a freaking (fucking!) point.

She talked more about how people just don't want to disappoint – that's why I returned the kiss, she said. Or that as long as we don't get caught, we will do almost anything. Then we talked about our accountant – Mr. Religious. What would he do? I was going to find out the next morning.