Mademoiselle A

Oh gosh, how I miss my beautiful French assistant, Mademoiselle A ! She went back to France for the summer to take her exams, and won’t return before October. I just can’t live without her. Life at the office is hell; I do actually have to work!

I have to share Mademoiselle A time to time with my colleagues, and I have found out that I am not at all the communist I thought I was (I have normally nothing to share, but I think everybody else should share whatever they have with me). I am VERY possessive when we are talking about Mademoiselle A, I want to keep her all to myself. She is first of all very beautiful. I certainly have the best view at the office; Mademoiselle A just in front of me and to the left the only hetero guy we have at the office. It is not easy being the only real man in an office full of women and gay guys, but I think he by now has gotten used to our inappropriate proposals for different combinations of threesomes.

Mademoiselle A is also very intelligent, for a half word she understands what I want and how things should be done. The only area in life where I can trace a certain stupidity is her eager to work. She was only hired on a short contract, but wanted badly to stay with us. With her good looks she could get any rich man she wanted, she doesn’t need to work! But as I in her age, she also has a poor boyfriend, and she is not very receptive for my good advice. Not that I try to advice her too much as her eager makes my life easier. And even my colleagues think that I exploit her, this is not true. I have been totally honest with her from the start; “Work hard, don’t expect any credit for your work as I will take it, and I guarantee you can stay.”

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And I have kept my word. She does all my work so I can just lay back and read my Madame Figaro while the hetero guy gets me a Café Latte (he is now taking seriously my inappropriate proposals of threesomes). I try to avoid putting my high heels on my desk and commenting Carla Bruni’s choice of a handbag too loudly as this seems to provoke my boss unnecessarily. Then my boss might come over to my desk and complain that she doesn’t pay me to read Madame Figaro with my feet up. “But my doctor told me I should have the feet up for the blood circulation, and that I should regularly take some breaks to stress off, wait a minute, I have a paper from the doctor somewhere”. I am desperately searching for a suitable document in my handbag (which has the size of Sarkozy's ego) and finally I find something that looks like a doctor’s paper and give it to my boss. “But this is a prescription for prevention pills” my boss says. “As you know I am not getting any sex, why on earth I have to take these pills “I say. Then I start complaining about my non existing sex life, how the only thing that could get me pregnant is the Holy Spirit. I go on with my moaning until my boss forgets why she bothered to come over to my desk, and leaves. Then I go back to Madame Figaro, but feel a little bit irritated about the interruption. My café latte has gotten cold.