At twenty, I no longer believe in boyfriends or whispered promises.
I believe in a man who hires me, puts a salary in my account every fifteen and thirty months, and tells me what time to arrive, what to do, and how to do it.
I believe in a boss who orders me to bring the coffee exactly the way he likes it,
who corrects me in front of everyone when I make a mistake and punishes me if necessary,
and who then, when everyone has left, bends me over the desk and fucks me while reminding me that I belong to him because I signed a contract and because he pays me very well for it.
Love, for me, is an organizational chart where he's at the top and I'm at the bottom,
it's a calendar full of tasks he assigns me,
it's an expensive dessert he brings me in the mid-afternoon "so you don't let your productivity drop,"
and it's his cock entering my mouth every time he locks the door.
If one day he doesn't give me orders,
if one day there's no deposit in my account,
if one day there's no cheesecake or macarons on my desk and he doesn't use all three holes before leaving…
then he never loved me.
He kept me as a temporary intern.
I want to be the permanent employee,
the one who arrives early because she knows he'll get angry if she doesn't,
the one who stays late because he asks me to,
the one who gets paid on time and eats well and lets him fuck her hard
because that's the only love contract I understand and it never expires.
So don't ask for flowers.
Ask for a permanent contract,
ask for raises and semen increases,
ask him to keep you busy, well-paid, and well-fucked.
Ask for a boss who hires you for life. And that way he'll show that he loves you (with a paycheck and the desire).