I Like Your Shirt

I walked in this morning and four of the (handsome) straight (that is an assumption) account execs were sitting around a meeting table. (You've got to love open plan)

“I like your shirt,” said one of them, just as I walked past.”

“Thanks. I got it at the “something” market.

“I like the colour.”

Ah straight boys, I thought, how you have evolved.

I like that side of the meeting table closest to the walk way, so often the boys are leaning forward and you get a good view of their undies elastic and, perhaps, a brief glimpse of skin, just above their arse cracks, perhaps hair rising up out of a slender skin split. (admit, you want to sniff him down there) Call me a perve. (from off stage, "You're a perve") Aren't we all, especially if it is a glimpse of pink skin over smooth flesh, we're all perves, come on, admit it.