I love being a temp. I'll tell you why: no accountability. It's not that I'm a bad temp. I take good care of my placement. But I'm a girl who likes to have fun, and reception is the best job.
You have to look good to get it - glossy lips and shiny hair. You have to have a gently accommodating voice, slow and sexy and welcoming. You have to dress nicely.
I like to wear tall leather boots, a garter belt and thigh-highs under a short black business skirt and a lacy bra that might peep invitingly when seen from above.
I love a man in a white shirt, with a starched collar that casts a cool shadow at the nape of the neck and cuffs that lead to broad palms and smooth fingers. I like that soft, slight billow above the waistband at the back. The warm cloth becomes transparent when lit from behind. I know that white shirt smells of fresh laundry and cologne. I know that the front buttons are warm from lying near skin, and if I run my hand over the gentleman's ribs, the cotton will be cool against my knuckles.
It should be a young man in a white shirt. Maybe he's in finance, maybe in marketing, maybe someone who's flown in from NYC to close a deal - just find him. I must be gentle with him. Office policy is that no one should be seen talking to the temp. He'll get around it.
He passes by my desk in the morning, gruff and still sleepy, white shirt under dark jacket.
"Good morning, sir." My voice must be low and soft, a half-smile, cheekbones, eyelashes, and then look away - I have work to do.
He doesn't even need to respond. I know I've caught his eye. He'll be back.
Uh-huh, he's back to have another look. I just let him, answer my phones or type up those notes or whatever. A little slip of that lace at my thigh shows. I'm yummy, and he's still staring.
I catch him right in the eye, hold it, give him the come-on. "Mmmm, I see you, too."
And so it begins. My favourite part of this whole game is that I'm just the temp. You can have a lot of fun slowly teasing someone at work and no one cares.
He knows that for reception, just press 0. He'll tell me where to meet him. If I'm lucky, I'll get to deliver his mail right to his desk. Hot searching hands in cold office air, deep urgent kisses in the elevator, explicit looks over a fax that just came in.
I luxuriate in his straightness. He's a full-time white-collar worker. He can't believe the temp is kissing him pressed up against the paper stacks in the copy room. I must be quick and sly and give him something to remember. I like to leave traces, a hickey at the wrist, a wet patch over a nipple, a button lost.
He might touch the strap of my garter once, but for the rest of the times he sees me primly sitting there at my desk and knows I'm wearing them. He'll probably never get further than kissing the back of my neck, but for the rest of the time he works there, he'll remember seeing my reflections in that window. Every time his phone lights up with a call from reception, he'll know that at one time I called him to tell him where I wanted him to put his tongue.
And how time flies when you're having fun, cuz yesterday was my last day, and I've disappeared without a trace. Well, except for that smudge of lipstick inside the collar of his white shirt.