Calamity Jane

NSFW: Sexual innuendo

She earned her nickname.  Let me backup.  Unabashedly the best-looking women at Heartthrob, Jane and I live the life every woman dreams of. Or should.  After being killer gorgeous, Jane as Chief Editor and I, as CFO, hold powerful, prestigious positions.  There’s no ego in play here but you should know while Jane simply oozes sexuality, I am aces over her. Jane and her big tits make men tremble.  With a nice set myself, and a superior ass, I make men convulsively wet themselves.  Literally.  I work at it.

Enter Mr. Talldark Handsome, or Alphonse, six feet and two inches of wavy blonde muscles that make women pass dead away in puddles of their own juices.  Executive Director, he’s enough to model for covers of the romance trash Heartthrob sells.  Okay, he not only has modeled and posed, he has graced more than one cover, as a fireman, a crusader, and as a lumberjack.  He’s everything a weepy-eyed, oh-I-want-him, my-heart-is-all-aflutter, my-womanhood-aches-to-have-him-enter-me woman dreams of.  What trash!

Neither Jane nor I liked Alphonse when he took over from the west coast ten months ago.  Didn’t like him at all.  We imagined him egocentric, chauvinistic, narcissistic, and every other unflattering male-bashing descriptive properly slung at men blessed with every advantage a man can have.  Not that he was macho or some kind of Casanova; it’s good for a man to rehearse properly bedding a woman. I’m not sure about Jane, but I find that charming. We didn’t know anything of that part of him at the time.  I still don’t.

Harboring unfavorable impressions of Alphonse, Jane and I, with most of the office staff celebrated a recent success, big cake, champagne, and all, late one night, aligning office-hours with the Westies.   The little girl who was to slice and serve cake went powder-room-missing after Alphonse innocently brushed against her at the conference room table. Jane took it upon herself to wield the knife and slice cake.  Her back to the table, she turned from the serving cart, knife in hand, and sliced Alphonse across his chest. Deeply enough to sever his tie cleanly in half, split his shirt and leave a crimson six-inch slash just below his pectorals.  That quickly ended our celebration.  The EMTs arrived, determined it a healthy but superficial wound, and taped Alphonse together only suggesting he visit an ER for stitches.

Not to interfere with expedient treatment, Alphonse shed his shirt.  Most of the women still there had seen Alphonse naked in that way, but there’s something about a slur of blood across a simply edible male chest that screams, “Take me! Take me now! Use me and toss me aside but use me!” Three of the older women couldn’t stand it and had to leave.  Others stood mouths agape.  Jane was beside herself.  I simply enjoyed the view and imagined Alphonse, useless sabre still in hand, yielding to my domination.

Several weeks later, Jane and I were discussing an upcoming serial release in the parking garage with Alphonse.  Scrumptious business, his deep steely blues constantly threatening to upset prudent decisions, at least to temporarily sidetrack productive discussion.  Meeting over, Jane climbed into her little red sports thingy and fired it up.  At the same time, Alphonse dropped a folder and bent over to pick it up.  I immediately got an idea for an upcoming cover shoot – a nude shot of Alphonse’s chiseled, rock-hard buns in some contrived pose, his sweaty, rippling thighs enough to hold any woman against her will, albeit only momentarily unwilling.  I wondered how those buns looked not wearing Italian-tailored slacks. The sight of Jane backing over Alphonse, knocking him to the concrete somewhat interrupted my reverie.  That time, Alphonse went to the ER.  No broken bones, but some Alphonse-meat was likely drooled-over by ER nurses as they treated his lower-body contusions.

Late this summer, Jane was feeling ‘domestic.’  She threw a barbecue in her penthouse apartment.  What a stupid damned idea!  When you have as much man-flesh on hand as she’d invited, you need privacy to dine.  In a further rush of ‘domestic,’ Jane determined to have the studs attending man the two rented grills.  Immediately after the grills were delivered to her balcony, it became obvious the gas thingies weren’t connected.  Two machismos failed to correct the situation.  Alphonse figured it out.  He was on his back, tightening connectors, I suppose.  I was almost ready to toss caution to the wind, in front of everyone there, drop panties and attack that hunk before he knew what was happening. Right then, you guessed it, Jane proceeded to light the burners. Alphonse’s hair has grown back remarkably well after this second Jane-ER ambulance ride.  If I’d been faster acting on impulse, hair elsewhere might have suffered, perhaps mine.

There’s Jane to my left.  Alphonse stands beside her.  Others of the wedding party, in stunning tuxedoes and the silly prom dresses brides make bridesmaids wear, stand in witness. Somewhere amidst the knife-throwing, vehicular assault, and flamethrower attacks, Jane and Alphonse discovered each other. Only in that regard do I envy her.  Here we are. The Reverend is about to say those words, then they’ll both be off the market.  Jane will probably kill Alphonse in some bizarre and painful way before long. 

I need to snare Jackson Salmon, the new Vice-Editor quickly, before Jane is loose.  Jackson’s a hunk, relegating Alphonse to Junior Varsity.  His poorly disguised body-builder physique is cover-worthy.  This CFO will attend that cover shoot, our first X-rated. Jackson’s trouser bulge needs to be inspected for worthiness. I’ll have the situation in hand, so to speak, before long.  Marriage is not my plan.  I want to see if Jackson can back me against the wall, lifting me off the floor without using his hands. It’s my intention to ruin Jackson for other women.  I can do that. I intend to use him, then toss him.  If he’s good, use him twice.  Okay, three times, tops.

© SP Wilcenski 2020
Originally posted on Prose 2020

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