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I work with 5 men… and I’m going to fuck them all.
All of them, with my husband’s permission.
Have you ever felt the air burn your skin just because someone stares at you too long?
I’m not talking about paranoia, no. I’m talking about that spark that runs down your spine when you know you’re in the center of five pairs of hungry eyes, and you, I, am the only woman in the room. My husband knew it before I did. I saw it on his face that night, when I dropped the bombshell like someone asking for more salt.
“Honey, you didn’t tell me that at your new job it’s all men. What, five?” His voice was playful, a challenge disguised as curiosity. He looked at me over the rim of his glass, the wine reflecting the pulsating lights of our smart kitchen. “Yes,” I said, and let the silence eat away at the rest.
Five. Five bodies orbiting around me every day, five heavy breaths as I walk past their desks, five excuses to brush my arm as he hands me a report. But there’s also something I didn’t tell him that night: the hum of the neural interfaces we use in the…
