One of the drawbacks of my job at the McDonald Institute is that occasionally one of the clientele may be excessively fit. There's one at the moment who's particularly gorgeous, and it takes an effort not to tumble head first into her cleavage. Well-groomed, beautiful, compact without being delicate, with physical and social graces. Intelligent but not as clever as me. We're a perfect match!
I'd throw away everything and follow her in an instant if she just made me an offer. I'd only need a few cast-iron guarantees. Over the years while I would mature further, she mustn't ever change. She'd have to keep working, and be prepared eventually to push a wheelchair. She could only have kids if it didn't interfere with changing my nappies. In return I would share all my home brew supplies and other worldly fluids.
Update: last week I had to sit close to her on a matter of work, and I happened to take a deep breath through my nose. I inhaled her essence. It was strong and feminine, but not the bouquet I had visualised. Not sure how to say this. It was in the trouser department, right?
Flesh and blood, scared me off. I think I may be cured.
Further Update: this week she fell prey to the inexplicable charms of the most assholey of the other clients. I see them giggling and whispering together. Why do the nice ones always go for the biggest jerks? Only very occasionally has a nice one ever landed in my life. Or even a not nice one.
Anyway, I've gone right off her if her taste's that bad. I withdraw my offer. She'll never make the trouser press.