O KAY , SO it was a trap. I’ll freely admit that in a moment of desperation, I got, well, desperate. See, I’d been in mad puppy love—with a fair bit of lust thrown in—for my coworker, Steve. Steve was six feet of sheer and utter brawny perfection, with dark wavy hair and brilliant blue eyes, a dimple in his chin, and an aquiline nose. Steve was also openly gay and admittedly single. In other words, on paper, Steve was perfect—perfect for me, that is. In case you missed that point.
So when the company offered us a weekend at the ski lodge over the New Year’s weekend, all expenses paid, spouses included, I eagerly jumped at the chance. Mainly because I was spouseless and Steve was spouseless, and a weekend rampant with freely pouring champagne might just change all that.
So yes, I laid a trap. Emphasis on the laid. As in me getting laid. Though that, I assume, you couldn’t possibly have missed. It was New Year’s Eve. The snow was falling, the lodge packed to the timbered rafters, and most everyone in the company was out skiing. Steve included. Me, I’d been skiing the previous day when I noticed the rustic cabin that was—okay, I confess—off of the bunny slope. The cabin was locked. Though it wasn’t well locked. In other words, with some determination aided by that rampant lust of mine, I managed to break in. The lock would eventually get fixed and, fingers crossed, so would I. By Steve. So yes, toes crossed as well. And maybe both eyes too, just to hedge my bets.
I left him a note on his bed while he was off skiing. Okay, so his door was also locked, and yes, also not all that well-locked, which also meant that yet another lock would now need fixing. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say. Or at least when I’m breaking and entering. Which seemed like a frequent occasion as of late, but only in the direst of circumstances. Which this, of course, was. The direst. And, uh… the horniest. Bears repeating in case the police should show up. Your honor, I plead momentary horny insanity.
Anyway, I broke in and left him a note. After I sniffed the unmade, ruffled, slept-in sheets. The ones with Steve’s unique brand of sweat still on them. Then I left the note. Then I sniffed his underwear. The pair on the floor. Though, to be fair, I tripped and fell on them and, while I was down there, sniffed. Honest. And did I mention in for a penny ? I mean, what was one more harmless crime in the grand scheme of things? Besides, is undies-sniffing even a crime? Not like I left drool on them. Probably.
So back to the note. It said something along the lines of meet me in the cabin, then some romantic mumbo jumbo, and then it was signed by his secret admirer, namely moi. I even drew him a map just to be on the safe side. Because I was a lot of things—namely, a breaking-and-entering, sheet-and-undies-sniffing horny coworker—but stupid didn’t make the long rap sheet of a list.
Then I skedaddled. Quickly. Or at least as quickly as someone with a crowbar of a boner lodged inside their ski pants can in fact skedaddle. So yes, quickly but a bit awkwardly. Which, ironically, was about how you’d describe my skiing abilities. Even on the bunny slope. Even as I sped to the cabin, crowbar of a prick remaining surprisingly crowbaresque. And if you think skedaddling with a boner is difficult, try skiing with one. Even a bunny would have a hard time, no pun intended, with that.
In any case, this time my trip to the cabin came replete with incidentals. Once inside, I removed the items from my backpack. Champagne and cups, check . Caviar and crackers, check . Candles, check . All stolen from the hotel, check , check , check , and check —please see that prior penny/pound comment. Lastly, I removed a bottle of lube and a packet of rubbers. Those were not stolen. Those I’d wisely brought with me from home. Cart before the horse, fine, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Apart from all the many and various chances
So when the company offered us a weekend at the ski lodge over the New Year’s weekend, all expenses paid, spouses included, I eagerly jumped at the chance. Mainly because I was spouseless and Steve was spouseless, and a weekend rampant with freely pouring champagne might just change all that.
So yes, I laid a trap. Emphasis on the laid. As in me getting laid. Though that, I assume, you couldn’t possibly have missed. It was New Year’s Eve. The snow was falling, the lodge packed to the timbered rafters, and most everyone in the company was out skiing. Steve included. Me, I’d been skiing the previous day when I noticed the rustic cabin that was—okay, I confess—off of the bunny slope. The cabin was locked. Though it wasn’t well locked. In other words, with some determination aided by that rampant lust of mine, I managed to break in. The lock would eventually get fixed and, fingers crossed, so would I. By Steve. So yes, toes crossed as well. And maybe both eyes too, just to hedge my bets.
I left him a note on his bed while he was off skiing. Okay, so his door was also locked, and yes, also not all that well-locked, which also meant that yet another lock would now need fixing. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound, I always say. Or at least when I’m breaking and entering. Which seemed like a frequent occasion as of late, but only in the direst of circumstances. Which this, of course, was. The direst. And, uh… the horniest. Bears repeating in case the police should show up. Your honor, I plead momentary horny insanity.
Anyway, I broke in and left him a note. After I sniffed the unmade, ruffled, slept-in sheets. The ones with Steve’s unique brand of sweat still on them. Then I left the note. Then I sniffed his underwear. The pair on the floor. Though, to be fair, I tripped and fell on them and, while I was down there, sniffed. Honest. And did I mention in for a penny ? I mean, what was one more harmless crime in the grand scheme of things? Besides, is undies-sniffing even a crime? Not like I left drool on them. Probably.
So back to the note. It said something along the lines of meet me in the cabin, then some romantic mumbo jumbo, and then it was signed by his secret admirer, namely moi. I even drew him a map just to be on the safe side. Because I was a lot of things—namely, a breaking-and-entering, sheet-and-undies-sniffing horny coworker—but stupid didn’t make the long rap sheet of a list.
Then I skedaddled. Quickly. Or at least as quickly as someone with a crowbar of a boner lodged inside their ski pants can in fact skedaddle. So yes, quickly but a bit awkwardly. Which, ironically, was about how you’d describe my skiing abilities. Even on the bunny slope. Even as I sped to the cabin, crowbar of a prick remaining surprisingly crowbaresque. And if you think skedaddling with a boner is difficult, try skiing with one. Even a bunny would have a hard time, no pun intended, with that.
In any case, this time my trip to the cabin came replete with incidentals. Once inside, I removed the items from my backpack. Champagne and cups, check . Caviar and crackers, check . Candles, check . All stolen from the hotel, check , check , check , and check —please see that prior penny/pound comment. Lastly, I removed a bottle of lube and a packet of rubbers. Those were not stolen. Those I’d wisely brought with me from home. Cart before the horse, fine, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Apart from all the many and various chances
Similar Books
