I was yet to get Australian residancy and was on a bridging visa. This meant I was limited in the work I was allowed to do so I worked terrible jobs – packing boxes, cold calling, data loading and, finally, I worked in an Australian Bank. I worked in Accounts, opening, scanning and logging invoices.
Come Friday I had my time sheet ready, 37 hours that had each passed agonisingly slowly. There was no internet, no e mail, and very limited conversation.
My manager picked up her pen, clicked it and stood up sighing heavily.
Yeah, you’ve done a good job this week.
The job wasn’t hard.
No thank you, nice to have someone with a bit of a brain.
I tried not to look around at my co workers, one of whom was eating butter with her fingers. She opened her arms and wrapped me in a hug
Thanks for your help
She was speaking directly into my ear now. Her hand travelled down my back and patted my left buttock. Her other hand joined it. She squeezed. She signed the time sheet after adding 5 hours on to the total and initialling the change.
See you next week.
I told me wife that night. I'd told her about the woman who leaked as she ran screaming for the toilet with a trail of urine following her. About the women who sold her used Channel lipsticks to raise the money to have a 3rd leg amputated from her cancerous dog. About the woman who insisted any man she slept with loved Harry Potter and how she’d sob when, post infrequent sex, men would admit they hated Harry. The Filipino lady in a micro dress and top painting her toe nails awkwardly while flashing her underwear and speculating about how she could quickie divorce her husband but keep his cash. The elderly man who sucked on his lower lip and shouted What What What? if anyone said his name before rushing away, declaring he had to be somewhere, returning with yet another chocolate milk. My manager, a large woman with a packet of cigarettes jammed into her bra and a desk scattered with toffee wrappers who, upon finding out the bank was starting an Employee of the Month for our department bullied her team into nominating her. She shed tears of joy as they placed a tiara on her head and gave answers on leading a good team. I told her about all of these people and I told her about hours being added to my time sheet.
She squeezed your backside?
And she gave you more hours?
My wife frowned, thought, and said (and denied ever since) - Well, we could do with the money.
The following week it happened again. And every week thereafter. One week I placed her hands directly on my backside and she added 10 hours to my timesheet. She’d gurgle breath in my ear and squeeze my cheeks. She’d go for a cigarette almost immediately afterwards.
My back side was pretty average, or averagely pretty if I am being glass half full about it. It’s still moderately hairy and soft but for 9 months it made us mo’ money.
Currently my wife is on a placement at a local school while she trains to be a teacher. For this placement she is not being paid so we are living off of one salary. Though we are not back at the scanning the streets for gold state but a $5 bill on the path is always handy.
We are 10 years since my rear bought home the bacon. I’ve assessed it in the mirror in the mornings and wondered if anyone would pay for a squeeze but sadly, if I am honest, its money making days are past.
Boobs on the other hand, there is always money in boobs. A neighbour and my wife were drunkenly talking and the idea came up of a website featuring film clips of just their chests with various liquid or foodstuffs poured on them. People would pay to see treacle, gravy, vegetable soup, paint, jelly, even beans to be tipped on their chests. This is a fabulous idea! A guaranteed money maker. Sober my wife has distanced herself from the prospect and, just as she assures me she never said Well, we could do with the money she assures me she never said this website was a good idea.
Now there’s a woman in the US who hasn’t bought groceries in 2 years, she has a website where folk pay her to eat things and buy her the food. She films herself eating and they send her more food. Would anyone pay to watch a film of custard running across my buttocks? Melted chocolate? Engine oil? I am guessing not.
But boobs covered in food? There be gold in them there hills. So I’ll get the wife drunk and break out the beans and the web cam (I think that may be the greatest sentence I have ever written). www.beansonboobs.com pay per view could be coming soon - Well, we could do with the money