Felicia was young. Young and oh-so-cute. She had this delicate way about her. Very feminine. A girly-girl who took pride in her appearance. Her long blond hair always smelled of wonderful, clean citrus. Nails painted just so. Her hip huggers accentuated her perfectly round bubble butt and allowed us a little peak at her lower back. Smooth and sexy with just a hint of panty peaking out when she knelt down to add a file to the bottom drawer.
Our receptionist by day and party girl by night. She dated a DJ and bragged about volunteering to be body shot receptacle. Such was the Felicia paradox: guarded and professional at work but open to a stranger sucking a Kamikaze out of her navel while laying across a bar at night. I would have given anything to be that stranger.
The long nights partying would occasionally catch up with her, and like most twenty-somethings she opted for a quick fix rather than change of lifestyle. One afternoon, after dragging all morning, she came back from lunch full of life. "I just had the extra large wheat grass juice at the Whole Foods store. Man, I feel great!"
Soon after, I saw a panic flush over Felicia's face. She headed quickly to the bathroom. Now, when I tell you this was a small office, I mean it. I remember my boss excusing himself to use the bathroom after my initial interview. I stood chit-chatting with Felicia while we listened to my future boss take a long, hard piss in the insulation-free bathroom a mere two feet from everyone's desk. The tile floor offered a fabulous echo to boot.
Within seconds of Felicia shutting that door, so began her reenactment of the battle of Tora Bora. Had al-Qaeda been in our toilet that day, they would have happily handed over bin Laden and become Mormons. That day Felicia's cinnamon ring withstood an egress of wheat grass juice at a velocity I can't begin to comprehend.
As quickly as it began, it stopped. But it was a mere pause, followed by a "cough". Then the blitzkrieg continued. I can only speculate, but I think the cough was a diversionary tactic to save what little grace she didn't already violently shat out.
But what kind of thought process was that? We know you're shatting your brains out in there. We can hear it. Hell, we're laughing and Instant Messaging each other about it. Are we to believe our first impression was wrong, and that you're in there coughing? Can you pucker your mouth like your azzhole and cough? I don't think so. The talented and beloved Norman Fell aside, I don't think anyone can. So who was she kidding?
Felicia returned to her desk after washing her hands as if nothing had happened. The stench crept into the office from under the door. Kind of like rotting, bloated corpse on a fresh, mowed lawn. A lesser man would have let that incident affect his feelings about Felicia. But how I still want that azz!
Our receptionist by day and party girl by night. She dated a DJ and bragged about volunteering to be body shot receptacle. Such was the Felicia paradox: guarded and professional at work but open to a stranger sucking a Kamikaze out of her navel while laying across a bar at night. I would have given anything to be that stranger.
The long nights partying would occasionally catch up with her, and like most twenty-somethings she opted for a quick fix rather than change of lifestyle. One afternoon, after dragging all morning, she came back from lunch full of life. "I just had the extra large wheat grass juice at the Whole Foods store. Man, I feel great!"
Soon after, I saw a panic flush over Felicia's face. She headed quickly to the bathroom. Now, when I tell you this was a small office, I mean it. I remember my boss excusing himself to use the bathroom after my initial interview. I stood chit-chatting with Felicia while we listened to my future boss take a long, hard piss in the insulation-free bathroom a mere two feet from everyone's desk. The tile floor offered a fabulous echo to boot.
Within seconds of Felicia shutting that door, so began her reenactment of the battle of Tora Bora. Had al-Qaeda been in our toilet that day, they would have happily handed over bin Laden and become Mormons. That day Felicia's cinnamon ring withstood an egress of wheat grass juice at a velocity I can't begin to comprehend.
As quickly as it began, it stopped. But it was a mere pause, followed by a "cough". Then the blitzkrieg continued. I can only speculate, but I think the cough was a diversionary tactic to save what little grace she didn't already violently shat out.
But what kind of thought process was that? We know you're shatting your brains out in there. We can hear it. Hell, we're laughing and Instant Messaging each other about it. Are we to believe our first impression was wrong, and that you're in there coughing? Can you pucker your mouth like your azzhole and cough? I don't think so. The talented and beloved Norman Fell aside, I don't think anyone can. So who was she kidding?
Felicia returned to her desk after washing her hands as if nothing had happened. The stench crept into the office from under the door. Kind of like rotting, bloated corpse on a fresh, mowed lawn. A lesser man would have let that incident affect his feelings about Felicia. But how I still want that azz!
