In Love With Your Boss who Wants Nothing To Do With You
There is nobody who does it like her.
Poised, professional. All the airs of a woman who’s lived life a thousand times, but you’d never be able to tell by looking at her. Calm at all the right times. A fighter for the things she believes in. Always ten steps ahead of the game. The best taste in pantyhose and pumps. You can’t tell if you wish she was your mother, your wife, or your best friend. As if you’d ever be worthy of the privilege.
Life is better when she’s around. You’ve never felt so nurtured, so mentored. You don’t even mind when she calls you by the wrong name, you don’t expect someone as important as she is to remember something like you. Your heart skips a beat when she emails you and spells your name wrong. You’re not worthy of the neuropathways, you understand. When you enter her office and ask permission to enter, she doesn’t even look up. There are so many things a thousand times more important to tend to than the likes of you. The best is when you ask her a question and she simply acts like you don’t exist.
You’re not ugly, just forgettable. Not dumb, just unmotivated. Not stagnant, just uninspired. Until now. Everything about her makes you want to improve yourself, even if it doesn’t change how she sees you. At least you’re cute while you’re being ignored. While you’re not working out, getting your hair done, shopping for better work clothes, you’re combing through every email she’s ever sent out. Even the company-wide emails where she uses her special, professional robot voice—you had them memorized, word for word. In the deepest corners of your mind are musings of tattooing her work extension right above your dick, so anybody who ever fucked you would see that your mind was off limits, captivated and owned by a woman who’s never thought twice about you.
You’re over being a gross creep. You refuse to make her life more stressful by displaying your obsession with her, and you’re honestly grateful she’s made you a better person without even trying. You’re so interested in keeping your obsession with her under wraps you’ve never even invited a single coworker over, for fear of them spotting the shrine you’ve built of her in your closet, adorned with a ripped pair of pantyhose you found in her trashcan late one worknight. Again, you’re over being a gross creep. You’re better than that now. You don’t even watch porn anymore, lulling yourself to sleep with the thought of her, completely unintrigued by the fucked up shit that once dominated your online activity. What was the point? All the blood in your dick only pulses for her now.
