It’s not a bad job, despite what you might think. I like what I do, and I’ve always heard that if you find a job you enjoy doing, you’ll never work a day in your life.
My own life is a big mess. The company I work for has no idea who they hired. Years back I got into some trouble because a girl I used to date claimed I was stalking her, which is just a huge crock of shit. She nearly got me put in jail, but Dad knew a great lawyer who was able to arrange for probation and a fine. I paid the fine off a long time ago, and as long as I stay away from Sherri the cops leave me alone.
What else is messy in my world? Well, there’s this crazy little thrill I get from watching some of my policyholders after work hours. I mean, I would never harm any of them, but some of the women are just so…they drive me crazy with desire. Sometimes I watch them for hours and then go back home and…well, I make myself happy. No one gets hurt; it’s a completely victimless crime.
Then I sold a policy to Lynette, and my life changed. When I say “changed,” I don’t mean we suddenly fell in love and lived happily ever after. That’s never gonna happen for me, but I’m OK with the fact that I won’t be married or have children. Children are an encumbrance, and marriage would only stand in the way of me being able to find fun where I want to. Do I really need a wife asking me what I’m looking at on my laptop or why I have a collection of women’s stockings and bras in my dresser? It’s no one’s business. I work hard, I play hard. No harm in that.
Back to Lynette. She’s younger than me. She just turned 30 and decided she needed to get some life insurance to protect her and her parents just in case anything happened to her and they were left alone with nothing but Social Security. She’s a really caring, special person, and she’s so beautiful, too. You have no idea how much I wanted to tell her that as I sat on the sofa in her apartment and asked her the application questions for the policy. I still remember that she was wearing Levi’s and a T-shirt the said, “Panama City Beach” on it. She’s perfection, and I guess part of me wishes I could tell her. But that would be very unprofessional.
So Lynette laughed when I told her the jokes that are part of my sales talk. Her eyes were so bright with kindness and joy. When I handed her the pen and she signed the application, I made sure to note where things in her place were located. I even got a tour of the apartment under the guise of maybe being able to get her a good price on some renter’s insurance.
I don’t sell renter’s insurance, but she doesn’t know that.
About a week later I’m back at Lynette’s house, but I make sure and drop by when I know she’ll be at work. I park about a block away and then walk the rest of the way so the car won’t be spotted. You gotta be careful sometimes in this job.
I go around to the back of the house because there’s a six-foot high privacy fence there that should keep any nosy neighbors from seeing me or what I’m up to.
When I walk up and try the sliding glass door, I find it unlocked. How lucky is that?
Inside, I take a pair of her sandals from the bedroom closet, two pairs of her panties (one pink, one white) and a wonderful lacy bra that I put against my cheek before I place it in my handy tote bag.
While I’m there, I figure I should have some fun, but then I pause and decide to leave. I’m getting some weird vibes off the place, like the walls are moving and I gotta get out before they crush me.
I sell a really great policy to a couple across town and even manage to collect a premium check covering the first three months of the policy. My district manager is gonna love seeing that! Speaking of him, his wife is not bad looking. She’s maybe 40, but with nice firm tits and a tight little butt I’ve used to spur me on as I make myself happy.
We all have a need, and a right, to be happy, don’t you think?
Lynette calls me a few days later and at first I’m scared shitless. Did she notice someone had been in her place while she was at work? No! It can’t be!
Turns out she wants to go out for dinner. I can feel my stomach churning as she tells me that she finds me very interesting and handsome, can feel my throat contracting as I try to reply to her.
Finally I tell her I’m engaged and she says she understands. But of course she doesn’t and could never hope to.
What I do, what I am, what I need, is beyond her comprehension, or that of anyone else.
But it’s not a bad job at all. Not really. It has its good days.
Copyright 2016 by Daniel X. Morrison. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.