A Little Foreplay
My name is Charles. My full given birth name is Charles Daniel Smith. Right away I know what you're thinking; anybody with a name as dull as that should be consigned to a life of mediocrity. Whoever heard of a Charles Smith, a Charlie, ever making it big at anything? I might as well have been named Mr. Nobody, Mr. Pastel Walls. And with a first name like Charles, Charlie, Chuck, Chuckie, one can be damned certain I wasn't going anywhere. The ladder of success, the stairway of upward mobility was never intended for people like me anyway; at least that's what I thought for a long time.
For sure I was Charlie the Nice Guy, Good Old Chuck, Charlie the Chump, Good Ole Chumpy Chucky behind my back. And believe me, I had every name coming. I'd earned every damn one of them.
I want you to believe it. I really did earn the name Charlie the Chump. At the office where I worked I was Mr. Helpful, Mr. Always Available to help somebody with 'their' project, 'their' ambitious new plan. Then when it came time for me to get my work done, well; you know the story. I was always late, tired, and never quite right. No matter what I did, it never quite measured up. What's the old slogan; nice guys finish last?" That was me every time, Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Finishing Last.
Now don't get me completely wrong. I did good work. I had good ideas. I was creative and talented. Hell, I was a Mensa caliber worker. That's right a card carrying, one hundred percent pure genius, but still an asshole all the same.
I suppose by now you've figured out what I look like. Well you could be wrong there. Look, I'm no Russell Crowell, but I'm not Don Knotts either. I stand at just six feet, weight in at one hundred eighty pounds, and have a thirty-three, not thirty-four which is more typical, inch waist.
I shave every day, no scruffy beard for this guy. I have dark blue eyes, sandy hair, a little unkempt, and no disfiguring scars or birthmarks. In fact I was pretty popular in high school and college. I had my share of girls. I'm not bragging; some of them were pretty girls.
I guess it's partly the nature of my job; kind of a research type of thing. I scour the Internet looking for ideas, inventions, and inventors. I'm supposed to contact them, and find ways to help get them off the ground or into a better frame of research. Yeah, that's a big part of the problem. I'm paid to help other people. I'm so busy helping other people, I forget to help good ole you know who.
Then there's the other thing. I like girls. I like them too much. I don't just mean the sex. By the way I'm a flaming heterosexual; could never see myself with another man. What I mean is, it's not just about the sex, I really just like girls. I like to look at them, talk to them, and I especially like to help them. It's that last part that's been the killer; at least it's been the big killer for me the last several months.
You see there's this girl who started work here about eight months ago. She's no voluptuous babe, but she's certainly no wall flower either. She's what I'd call kind of the kittenish type. She's pretty, she's cute, she's personable, and she got my number, yeah she sized me up right away.
Her name is Lauren Amber Railsbach, and to put it simple, she's a dish. There are maybe twelve other guys my age or a little older working in the company, not to mention an approximate equal number or so girls. Some of the guys are married, some aren't, but they're all interested in Lauren. She knows it too!
Crap, I'm interested in her, been interested in her since day one. That's been my undoing! Let me explain.
Lauren started work here just about eight months ago. She's got about the same academic credentials as me, just lacks the experience. She's smart, pretty, and personable, I know I already said that, and she's really inside my head.
Since her first day her desk has been just a few paces away from mine. She's so pretty! She comes to work wearing these beautiful little outfits. They always set off her best features, and believe me; she's loaded with best features.
She's sort of short; not quite five foot four, not thin but not plump either. She's no hard bodied athlete, but she's well put together. She has reddish hair, a little on the thin side, but it's so damn soft looking, all wispy. She has big green eyes, long lashes, a smidgen of freckles, the cutest damned ears, this pert little nose, and this great heart shaped mouth. Sometimes I pretend I'm deep in thought so I can sort of look through her but still look right at her too. I sit there at my desk; I fantasize about kissing those lips. Oh and did I say, she has dimples too. It drives me half mad to talk about her!
Her shape is just right. Her breasts look a little on the smallish side, maybe 34B. But she wears these prim little button up blouses, and she has this way of sort of moving her arms in front so that she squeezes her breasts together. I don't know what kind of bras she wears, but her nipples stick out a lot. The other men in the office are always walking by her desk just to get a look. Shit, that's my problem. She's there all the time; I can't not look!
I love the way she talks. Some women, young women, have these screechy voices. Not Lauren. Hers is soft, sweet, and melodic; like a lilting little love song, easy on the ears. I love it when she uses my name. I literally fall off my chair. She never says Charlie; it's always Charles. I could sit and listen to her talk all day long. In fact sometimes I do.
Like I said, she's had my number since day one. Of course, somebody had to be on hand as a kind of mentor, someone to show her the ropes as it were. Our boss, the big cheese, picked me. When she first came he said, "Charlie, this is Lauren. She's new here. We have high hopes for her. Show her the ropes." And that's exactly what I did.
I was Mr. helpful, Mr. considerate, and Mr. Go the extra mile from the first day, and brother did she thank me. How did she thank me? She kept doing all this smiling, and eye blinking, and doing shit with her pencils and pens. Some women have a way with writing implements, the way they fiddle with them I mean. If you ever watch, really watch, they can take a pencil, put it to their lips, twirl it around a little in their mouths, and put their tongues on the erasers in ways that can keep a man awake at night thinking about it.
Remember my desk is only a few paces away. I see everything; the curve of her legs, the twist of the ankle, the way she bends her wrists, puts a cup of coffee to those luscious lips, the way she cocks her head when she's thinking, even the way she puts a handkerchief to her nose and wipes it. I wish sometimes I was that handkerchief so I could be near that beautiful little turned up nose.
She wears these pretty little blouses with these little skirt things. They're miniskirts, but never so short as to be indecent. But for me, I see her sitting down. It's like she never just sits at her desk. She always seems to have a leg just off a little. It's like I get a little show; a hint of thigh, a glimpse of calf, a peak at knee. Some guys would say she's flirting, but I know better. This is all natural, and I love it. I really love it!
We better stop just a second. You might be getting the wrong idea. I'm no voyeur. I'm not spending my whole day just staring at her. I'm a perfectly healthy, normal man. I'm no pervert, but she's so damned pretty, so perky, and so bubbly! What can I do?
