The Graduate does The Fox

I lift my head from my pillow, and find it aches. As I don’t drink, my headache is not a hangover, so what is it? Is it that after a night of sexual ecstasy with my latest ‘victim’, every endorphin in my brain has been released and has therefore left nothing but an aching void? Unfortunately, it is not. Is it the stress of my high-flying and very important job, involving proof-reading mundane articles and incinerating contributors as they hand in yet another sex quiz? Well, no. No, my head aches because of a different kind of stress which awaits me. I sit bolt upright in my bed, trying not to slip backwards on the leather sheets, un-cuff myself from the headboard and take a glance at what is next to me. It is of course, me being me, a man. Quite attractive in a glib, ‘what was I thinking?’ sort of way. I am now, of course, faced with the stress of getting rid of this sexual vessel so that I can:

a) get in the shower and wash the jam off
b) put my red gimp mask in the twin tub
c) go to work

After a few gentle nudges with my gilt-edged cattle prod, ‘it’ is awake, but unfortunately reluctant to leave. As I sip my third glass of otter’s blood, ‘it’ moans something about ‘a cup of tea’ and ‘getting to know each other’… Oh dear. I realise I may have bitten off more than I can chew here so I get one of the eunuchs in to eject him and, for the moment at least, my boudoir is my own.

Tugging on my thigh-length spike heels (well, I can’t dress TOO outrageous for work you see, people might get the wrong idea, or should that be the right one) and trying to ignore the cries of my various stalkers outside my window, I try and imagine what my life would have been like if I hadn’t embraced this lifestyle which I so enjoy. Would I be like every other young woman in her twenties? Trying to look sexy by the photocopier hoping my moronic boss with his gelled-back hair and peanut-sized member would notice me, maybe take me out for a drink, shag me for all of five minutes and then ignore as I burst into tears every time he asked me for a cup of coffee? Oh no, not for me the blonde lifestyle that seems to suit others so well.

Dressed at last in my finest red leather (PVC does nothing for me and squeaks like the brakes on a no. 9 bus), I leave my abode and saunter down the street…confident that every man is looking at me and wanting me… even the blind ones. It is an air I give off; more sensual than any perfume… It is the air of a sexually liberated woman. I sit in the office and swish my whips about and occasionally tap a key on the PC, chuckling to myself as the men in the office sit agog, drooling onto their cheap shoes. Which one will it be tonight? I may be a slut, but I’m still picky. My victims have to be able to keep their mouths open or shut when it matters the most, and I’m not interested in any man who gets all jittery when they see my tape measure. If I can’t hang thirty-six bagels from it, then you’re out of luck, ‘boy’.

Passing a relatively interesting day at work, posting inflammatory messages on the boards, as well as using lots of long words, flirting outrageously with anyone (I told you I was liberated), and eating both men and toffee muffins for breakfast, I make my way to a bar. It could be anywhere. I don’t care. As long as there is a man and a pint of Perrier, I’ll be just fine. I decide that enough is enough. I will be a predator no more. If there is one man out there who has the balls to come to me and lay down all the demands, then my faith in mankind might just be restored and I can cancel my subscription to ‘Which Nipple Clamp?’

Making my way into yet another generic, wooden-floored, metal-chaired meat market, I scan the room for possibilities. And there he is. He has spotted me and can’t take his eyes off me. He smiles a knowing smile, and makes such gestures with his eyes that even I, who sees all emotion as a weakness, cannot help but be excited.

He makes his way over to me…I feel a thrill I haven’t felt since…since the milkman came on to me. He has his hand outstretched. For once, I am not the chaser, but the chased. Is he really man enough to take the lead?

He is standing right in front of me. He lifts his hand to my face and then to my hair. I feel more sensual than ever before… His hand makes contact with my hair and he brings it down to my hand and spreads my palm. We do not speak. He places something in my hand. I look down to my hand and see in my palm a considerable chunk of toffee muffin. “That was in your hair, love. My boyfriend spotted it as you walked in.” And then he was gone…