JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE

This afternoon I fluttered into the knockshop, ready for another shift, another adventure.

No two shifts are ever the same in this joint, today is no exception.

This afternoon was extra special. Upon greeting Rachel the Super Boss, she informed me that there was a Penthouse Magazine shoot going on in the orgy room upstairs and the lovely lass being photographed was none other than Rachel Whitwell, who is fiiiiine with any tragic and desperate losers (like me) who might want to get their spectating on and get a good old eyeball full of scorching Kiwi hottie.

I twisted an ankle,broke two fingernails and pulled a hammie getting up the two flights of stairs and hurtling down the corridor.

Oh. My. God.

Mother of one and at 27 years of age, she proves that actually, not all of the stunningly superior beauties are in dire need of a good airbrushing before they are fit for general public consumption.

She is nothing short of spectacular. Not a stretch mark, not a hint of cellulite, not a wrinkle, not a single faint blemish in sight anywhere, and believe me when I tell you I scrutinised every inch of her very, very carefully. Perfection from her pedicured toenails to the tips of each strand of hair on her head (which is the only place she has any).

Stunning. Polite. Smiley. Friendly. Professional.

She did some shots in the pole dancing lounge and mid-shoot, wandered up to reception stark fucking naked, save for a pair of stripper heels.

I felt my jaw slacken and fought the good fight to keep my gaze well above her chin, I was going for eyeball to eyeball at all times.

*I failed*

"Uuuuuuuh....duuuuuuh...muuuuuuh, er, erm, sorry. I looked at your boobs." I stated, horrified. I was glowing magenta. Dry mouthed. Dizzy. Fuckety McFuckerson! I'm such a LOSER!

She giggled and told me it was normal, it was ok, she didn't mind. Happens all the time...

*prays for spontaneous death to occur*

"So, do you have a towel please?" She chirruped, sweet smile on perfect face.

"Uuuuuuuuuh, duuuuuuh....shuuuuuuure." I blathered some shit while I felt around the desk for a towel. Obviousy, I do not keep fucking towels on my Goddamn desk...they are obviously in a neat stack in the laundry room, but my brain couldn't manage any complicated processes like "where are the towels?"

Frankly, I would have struggled with other brain twisters such as "what's your name?" and "What colour is the sky?" at that moment.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh,....Uuuuuuh....I just uuuh, laundry....Just a second." I began drooling then.

*someone strangle me, pleeeease*

She gave me a funny look (of course she did I was acting like a fucking retard) and minced away back to the photographer while I broke another two fingernails and pulled my other hammie sprinting up the staircase to the laundry to get her a towel.

I got her 12 towels, just to be extra nice, because she is so ridiculously beautiful and perfect. I was nearly in tears when she said thanks and touched my hand.

SHE TOUCHED MY HAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The obvious response to being utterly and completely blinded with such amazingly superior physical perfection, is to feel utterly wretched and spend a good 15 minutes standing in front of a full length mirror with my jeans pulled down below my knees and t-shirt pulled up to my neck.

*CHOO! CHOO! IT'S A FUCKING TRAIN WRECK*

All there is left to do in times like that, is order a huge pepperoni, mushroom and double cheese pizza with a side of wedges swimming in sweet chilli and sour cream, and a chocolate thick shake. Well, actually that is been done, so actually, all there really is left to do is lay in wait for the delivery guy.

Oh!....and here are the tears of utter and complete self loathing. Riiiiiight on time.

The end.