Cucumber-Induced Madness

Peri-dinnertime addendum: 

Is it just me or is this entire thing going to be rather self-absorbed? Admittedly, it’s aimed primarily at myself so that shouldn’t be too surprising, but I can’t help feeling that there are far bigger fish to fry than my sex life which (as I shall relate) has now run to a maximum of three successive sessions (that should be a better word) with the same guy; which, counting from the New Year is something of a personal best. I hope that that doesn’t make me sound too slutty. And I have got to get better at those titles.

Anyway, since every gruesome detail should be cataloged to feed my desire for self-love (no, not that kind), I should first relate how I was groped very unsatisfactorily on the subway this morning, which left me outraged and violated (obviously: nothing a tug of your top won’t fix but it’s just not nice, which is a substantial understatement - but I've discovered even my insubstantial chestage is the subject of interest to metropolitans) but also rather depressed that nothing more creative than an ‘accidental’ and prolonged touching of my boob could be managed on the part of my otherwise dishy assailant (who predictably managed to vanish before I properly realized what was going on).

But moving swiftly on, (much as he did): far more enjoyable if equally unexpected, the Co-Worker and I met for a brief lunch, which, when the assorted comestibles had journeyed south, degenerated into a playful public scuffle. We followed this by a clandestine venture into an unguarded bathroom, for reasons I don’t pretend to understand other than cucumber clearly makes me horny, where we probably rather noisily made out, and both my boobs were touched this time. Things came to a head (though sadly – from his point of view – not literally) with me leaned back on the door, deliciously fingerbanged in the semidarkness by a guy in a suit.

The whole episode was about five minutes, and I’m still not sure what happened. Not that it wasn’t fun, but I feel kind of dirty. This has got to stop. Sex should probably stay out of the workplace in future; we didn’t get caught but in retrospect, an important lesson learned too.

Listen to myself! Things come full circle (now that has to be something worthy trying); we return to self-absorption. But since nothing else other than an alarming heap of laundry taking up all the space in my room that’s not my bed, is actually going on in my life, I suppose sex is all I’ve got. Rock on Friday.

 And speaking of the subway guy’s interest in my boobs alone (he was about my age, well groomed; he could have asked me out instead), there’s some vague connection to: jezebel.com/5929326/every-day-ordinary-women-are-reduced-to-sexual-body-parts-by-men-and-by-women

Though also, of course; I’ve just spent the last few days writing about specific bits of me and what the Co-Worker is doing to them. Hypocrite muchly methinks.