Most men are flirts. I guess the same is true for girls, but not as overtly. And we’re certainly more discriminating. Guys my age, or maybe a few years older, will typically use some play with a wingman, or have a gimmick they’ve mastered to give them some mock persona or confidence. Some gimmicks can be very clever, but it helps if they actually have other attractive qualities – great hair, tall, unique fashion or some other intangible.
The guys I work with are easy marks, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy fucking with them. During my interview, the Sales Manager told me without any reservation at all, “You have the qualifications I’m looking for – you have a pretty face and you don’t mind showing off your body.” I laughed at him, but had to agree.
I don’t work at a strip club though. I work for a local motorcycle dealership. My manager followed up his rather shocking admission by telling me, “Men want. They see, they want. So a guy comes in, sees a motorcycle. He wants it. He starts imagining the fun of riding it. He imagines all the envy of other guys, wanting the motorcycle that he’s riding. He’s getting so much pussy thrown at him because of his cool, new bike. So he’s DEFINITELY going to have that bike.”
By the time my boss, James, finished explaining the inner workings of the male psyche to me, we were both laughing our asses off. But I got it. And he was absolutely right. Guys see. Guys want. But most guys’ fantasies begin to dissipate when they sit in front of a finance manager. All that pussy they were going to get… forget about it. Their $80 Abercrombie T-shirts aren’t going to convince the money guy that the $18 per hour Assistant Manager gig they have at Wendy’s will really be enough to pay for it.
Now I’m not saying I can help out Mr.Wendy’s Assistant Manager. That eighteen bucks an hour shit is a pretty hard reality to bend. But the married, serious earner, looking to spice up his boring, fucking life. Yeah, that’s where I come in. I have a specialized set of skills at the ready, to close THAT deal. Mr. Maybe I’ll Buy A Motorcycle To Make Me Less Unhappy (I know, nobody has a name that long. Leave me alone, I’m telling a story, here) KNOWS he can flash the cash to ride one out of here. But first, he has to… you guessed it… check with the wife.
Those guys are my niche market. I can’t sell them a motorcycle, that’s not my job. I’m conspicuously placed to be a face (and body) of the shop. But not to be anywhere in between the prey (customer) and the stalking predators of our sales staff. I wouldn’t be able to answer the questions our wrench-headed salesboys get asked. My unique abilities are applied if and when Mr. I’m Buying This Bike Today reaches for his cell phone, between the sale (predation) and delivery (sign here, it’s only 16.5% interest).
I’m “The Flirt”. And although I’m only sixteen years old, nobody at my job can tell me HOW to do my job. They just know I’m good at it. I keep those little fantasies alive and kicking until the dotted line is signed. My success rate is exceptional, but even I can’t improve a guy’s credit score. Most of our customers fit in the ‘married and just looking, dreaming’ group. But too many of those guys walk in, see the pretty girl and imagine me holding on tight as they cruise me around their friends on their cool, new bike. Then they see the price tag on one of our bikes “On Sale”, and decide to go fantasize about their Chili’s waitress.
My latest mark slipped the hook on me, though. He was mid-twenties, confident and poised, well-groomed, but I got the sense he spent more time in front of the mirror than I do. He definitely knew his shit when it came to motorcycles, though. He asked some things that even stumped our lead sales jockey, Harp. Mid-twenties confident groomer dude drove a three series BMW. I didn’t see that when he pulled up. He was a pretender. He just wanted to play with me/us, waste our time. Anybody that reaches to LEASE themselves a BMW 330 is just pretending they’re the shit.
I get paid by the hour. So it doesn’t really matter Mr. BMW 330 couldn’t afford the lifestyle that the character he played in his own little fantasy had. And hell, I’m gonna flirt whether you have the money or not. How else am I going to hone my craft? But this guy? He charmed the shit out of me! I like to think, when it comes to flirting and pushing the buttons, that it is always MY fingers doing the pushing. I got caught in a trap. He was good looking, and damn it, I am not used to a level playing field!
Mr. 330 didn’t observe ANY of our predatory protocols. He ignored Harp, repeatedly. Then 330 asked Harp some bat-shit difficult question, making him go ask for help. With no predatory interference, the game turned on me. I became the prey. 330 cooly chatted me up, making good conversation, but making it all about me – that’s MY trick! I let him play with me, keeping him entertained until Harp could work him over. Then I figured I’d see poor, Mr. 330 sadly doing the losers walk, from the back finance office ALL the way across the showroom.
When Harp hurried over to answer whatever 330 had asked, Mr. 330 politely rebuffed him. “Nice chatting with you, Heather,” he nodded and left in his almost luxury car.
OK. OK, I laughed to myself. He had some game. That was fun. He clearly wasn’t here to buy a motorcycle. I could have been pissed about getting played, a little. But it was cute. I was more pissed that Harp jumped through hoops to help, and wouldn’t see a commission. Sorry, Harp.
With the showroom vacant, I walked back to the break room. My heels make a pretty resounding click-clack on the tile floor of the hallway. So I’m not likely to sneak up on anyone. Not that these guys care what I hear, anyway. But as I rounded the corner, I heard muffled voices – “blah blah, mumble, quiet, blah blah – want to fuck that girl.”
“Fuck what girl?” I asked, looking at Bryce, our lead mechanic. I knew it wasn’t Harp that said anything like that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that guy swear. I raised my eyebrows and pretended to be VERY offended, stepping over to get in Bryce’s face. “Hmm?”
Then I turned sharply to give an accusatory leer at Harp, “Who are you guys so hot about?” I waited a few seconds, laughing so hard inside as Harp stared at his shoes. “Harp?”
“Oh,” Harp looked up, blushing. “No. That’s not what he said. Bryce was just being funny, you know…” The old, end the sentence with, “you know,” like I’m just going to drop it.
I looked back to Bryce, attempting to give him a burning, raging look. He was smiling big and silently laughing so hard, I cracked up. “You know one of these days…” I reached down and grabbed a handful of Bryce’s bulge, “Letting this thing do all your thinking for you, is going to get you in trouble, Mr. Walking HR Violation.” I laughed, turned around and began walking out of the breakroom, exaggerating the swing in my hips. “Go back to your bragging about who’s fucking who,” I teased the two ogling guys behind me.
Of all the guys I work with, Bryce is the only one I can really flirt hard with. We’re equally matched, in the sense that he doesn’t really expect it to go anywhere. He’s an enormous flirt, himself. And he’s the best looking of the lot. Harp might be cute, if he mowed all the facial hair. But even then, it wouldn’t be fair to play with him, the way I do with Bryce. Harp is just too nice. And nice guys don’t get flirted with. Too many ways for that to go wrong – either they get possessive and clingy or maybe even stalk me, or I’m just the teasing, bitch that he works with.
As closing time approached, I heckled the bike-jockeys as they rolled the outside “On Sale!” inventory back into the showroom. James has told me many times that I could leave when they start bringing the bikes in. But I never felt right about doing that. I certainly wasn’t going to help or anything, what with a short skirt and high heels… please. Still, I’d feel shitty walking out while those guys were still humping it. So I stand out there and cheer them on, telling them what a great job they’re doing – how proud I am. Busting balls – just another form of flirting, for me.
I checked in with my roommate on my way home – also known as Daddy. I called to see if he’d eaten. He had, so I picked up some tacos for myself. Mr. Fancy Man works most of the time from home, in T-shirt and underwear, unless I’m home. Then he begrudgingly adorns the forever stylish, flannel pajama pants.
I carried my bag of tacos into the house, grabbed a soda from the fridge and knocked on Daddy’s bedroom door. Why he keeps his door closed when nobody is home? Never asked… Don’t care to break the gauge on my “Ick Meter”.
“Come in,” Daddy called.
I walked over to the bed, as Daddy hit the mute button, silencing the soap opera going on in Washington, DC.
“Scoot,” I ordered, playfully. I handed the bag of tacos to my dad, so I could get reclined against the headboard of his bed, just like he was.
I bent my knees, planted my heels flat on the bed, quickly unbuckling and removing my Mary Jane stilettos. I get more compliments on those shoes, from women… men just stare. Daddy is a man, so…
“Quit staring, you perv. I know they’re cute,” I played, as I dropped my shoes on the floor.
Daddy stole a taco from the bag before I snatched it out of his hand. “You LARCENIST PERV!” I yelled, laughing. “I KNEW you’d take one. Glad I ordered an extra.”
I unmuted the TV. Hearing people crunch on tacos isn’t high on either of our lists of favorite sounds.
“How was school today?” Daddy asked, starting the obligatory parent/student conversation. School is the last thing I ever want to talk about. It’s not that I don’t have friends or struggle with my grades. I’m in all honors classes and my average is high enough to be named Valedictorian, when I graduate next year.
“Fine,” I sighed.
“Something wrong? I just never see you studying or doing homework.”
“No,” I giggled. “If I don’t get done at school, I usually have time to get it finished at work. James doesn’t care. Do you really want to hear how bored I was in government class, or how obvious Mr. Jones stared at my tits for an hour in physics?” I finished, laughing.
“OK!” Daddy laughed, hard. “OK. Remind me not to ask about school anymore. Geez!”
“I’d just rather talk about something more interesting. I had fun at work. No closings today, but it’s never a dull moment.”
“Did you see Kim?” Daddy asked, a bit overly interested.
“Let it go, Daddy,” I said, patting his leg, patronizingly. “I’ve told you. This is the wrong tree, Kim,” holding my soda can in front of his face. “And THIS is you,” putting the remains of my taco next to the can, “barking up it.” I laughed.
“I’m just saying, she’s really cute.”
“Yes. She’s adorable. I love her. But she is not interested. Kim is more likely to date ME than she is to date you. Sorry.”
Kim is our Office Manager. She’s gorgeous, late thirties, and does not mind telling you she is a lesbian. I have never bent that way, but if I did… yeah, Kim would be the girl I’d do it with. I wonder if I’d still be a virgin if I had sex with a girl, I laughed to myself.
My phone chimed, text notification, from Bryce.
I’m in the shit with James.
“What now?” I sighed, then texted Bryce back, Why?
He heard us fucking around. You said something about HR.
“What’s going on?” Daddy asked.
“Nothing, Daddy,” I said, then texted Bryce back. I’ll tell James it was a joke. Chill.
“The guys were talking dirty and I called them out on it, just being funny. Our boss heard it, now he’s worried I’m gonna say something to HR,” I finished telling Daddy.
“Well, maybe you should!” Daddy pressed.
“No. This is all on me. I was in THEIR area. And nothing they said was that bad, I was just busting Bryce’s balls.” I leaned over and kissed Daddy’s cheek. “I gotta go handle this. Goodnight, Daddy,” then headed to my bedroom.
He wants me to apologize to you, Bryce texted.
Are you serious? We were just messing around!
Yep. James will call us into Kim’s office tomorrow.
Make it real. Cut your wrists and bleed for me, you dirty fucker, I replied, attaching a laughing emoticon.
I’ll try to do it without laughing, he answered.
You better. Otherwise, I’m using my lawsuit money to buy some big, fake titties! Ha!
Why? Yours are perfect already, Bryce replied.
Well. My demi-bra does put them ‘out there’, doesn’t it? Hehe
Love to see them out of that bra!
Keep it up, you dirty fucker! That comment should get me another ten grand! LOL.
Oh, I’m keeping it up alright. I don’t think you’ll win your case when I tell them you grabbed my cock.
Oh please. You really think they’re gonna believe that a sixteen-year-old, innocent girl touched a thirty-something guy’s penis? Good luck! LOL.
You didn’t just touch. You grabbed a handful!
Oh shit. I did, didn’t I? LOL.
Mmm. Yes, you did.
OMG! Are you jerking off??
Not anymore. LOL.
LOL. Goodnight Bryce.
