Parrots Spreading The Message

Emma’s spirits sank when she read the first email of the day. It was from her superior in the PR department informing the team that Chris was coming in for his annual visit to the office to brainstorm ideas on how the company could be leaner, meaner and greener.

God, that slogan. That had been his big idea last year.

“We’ll get heaps of pamphlets printed up all saying how we are leaner, greener and meaner now,” he’d said, his big expectant face reminding of her a dog her brother had as a child that she’d always disliked.

It was a patently stupid idea but the way things were, what he said had to happen, so, they’d duly printed up 150,000 flyers only to realise Chris wouldn’t be doing any more work as part of his ‘sponsorship’ for the rest of the year. In the end, the flyers had all been pulped.

Emma didn’t know how much the company was paying Chris for his sponsorship committment, but knew it would be a hell of a lot more than she got for doing actual real life work.

Maybe she wondered, now the boss had gone to the great Competition Commission hearing in the sky, the deal would be reviewed.

She could only hope.

Two hours later she was sitting in a meeting room listening to the prematurely-balding moron drone away in that voice of his. She’d studied hard at uni, even done a post-grad. And here she was taking notes like a secretary while a professional bloody footballer lectured her about the environment and climate change.

“I had another idea. I reckon in the off-season, you guys could fly me to every country in the world in alphabetical order so I could give talks on the importance of reducing carbon to schoolkids? It would have to be first-class because of my shoulders though. But the media would lap it up. You know, like me flying to America and then Austria and then Azerbaijan and so on. Be awesome,” he said.

Chris looked at Emma and held her gaze. What the fuck was he staring at she thought? Was he trying it on with her? One of these footballers who thought every woman in the world wanted to screw him just because he was better than most at kicking a bloody ball around? Then it dawned on. He was waiting for her to write down the latest pearl of wisdom he’d just dispensed. For fuck’s sake. She began writing and he continued.

“Then I had a really good idea about how we could spread the message about climate change. You know those parrots that you can train to say stuff? Well, what we do is get like ten thousand of them, and make them all root each other heaps so we get loads of parrots, like a million, and teach them to say stuff like ‘Switch off your lights when you leave the room’ and ‘Don’t leave your plasma screen on standby, unplug it at the wall’

“Then we like release a couple of hundred thousand in all the big cities and towns and that, and they’ll just fly around and spread the message,” he said earnestly.

Emma glanced at her phone and saw there was another hour and forty five minutes of the meeting to go. She felt her very will to live slipping away. Imagine having to spend whole days in his company. No wonder his missus preferred dining at the Y.

Rebecca's Reverie

Rebecca stared wistfully at the examination chair in her office. It had been more than a chair, more than merely functional office furniture. It had been a portal to carnal pleasure the likes of which she had never known before and feared would never experience again.

She allowed herself the briefest reverie, recalling those magical mornings with Caroline, how Rebecca would sling one long, perfectly tanned leg over the rest of the chair and wrap the other gently around Caroline’s neck and shoulders, using gentle pressure to force the older woman deeply into her most sensitive places as the gasping, drenching, spine-tingling moment of climax approached.

Rebecca felt her hand gently moving southwards. She held the image in her mind, a picture of the last she and Caroline had made sweet, sweet flange-flavoured music. It had been the fourth time that morning, Rebecca straining every sinew as Caroline, who showed no signs of tiring, had lifted her up to a pinnacle of sexual release she had never know existed.

Back in the real world, Rebecca was just about to slip one long, elegant finger beneath the elastic of her tight Bonds – bought at david Jones though – panties when the door of her office burst open.

Flushed, she quickly moved her hand away from her womanhood and up toward her face.

“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking first? Were you born in a tent?” she demanded, flustered and caught off-guard.

The man who’d entered her office instead began pointing and laughing.

“Oh my God, Ooh my God,” he laughed breathlessly, “You were gunna have a wank weren’t you? You were gunna have a lady toss. You were feeding the gerbil!”

“Excuse me,” said Rebecca, with the haughtiest tone she could summon, “I was merely adjusting and important piece of medical equipment. How may I help you?”

“I’ve got an appointment,” the tall, slightly dubious looking chap replied.

Rebecca looked at her diary. Indeed, there was an appointment, name of Brendan. Suddenly it clicked. This was the one Chris had been yammering on about the other day. She tended to zone out whenever Chris started talking about football.

“Well, come and sit down Brendan, how can I help you?”

Brendan sat gingerly in the examination seat. Rebecca was glad he didn’t immediately bend down and sniff it. He looked he wanted to it.

“I want you to help me get a big set of false tits,” Brendan declared matter of factly.

Rebecca was taken aback by that, but recovered her composure.

This could be interesting. This could be something new.

“Ok,” she replied, “Let’s talk. I’m going to need to take some measurements for a start.”

Brendan stood up with a big boyish grin and dropped his daks.

“Ya gunna need a really long tape measure then!”

Rebecca smiled to herself. This would indeed be fun.

“I meant your chest Brendan, you can pull your trousers up now.”

He did, but not before they shared a giggle. This would be fun indeed.

Good Advice

The boys were on their last warm down lap at the Visy Memorial To Creative Accounting Stadium when Brendan decided to approach Chris.

The prematurely balding captain was flanked by his pageboys, Bryce and Marc.

“That’s a lovely scent you are wearing today, Chris,” trilled Marc.

“Oh yes, oh yes, isn’t it fine, isn’t it smashing, isn’t it fabdabudocious,” squeaked Bryce in reply.

Brendan growled at them.

“Youse, Hi-5, piss off before I break your faces.”

The two boys scattered at Brendan’s approach, like rabbits in the shadow of an eagle.

“Gidday Brendan, how are you mate,” Chris said cheerfully, as the main group passed the sickening sight of Setanta beating a rookie-listed kid to death with a tree branch.

“You read books and shit don’t you?” Brendan asked.

“Oh yeah!” Chris replied enthusiastically. “My favourite one is the back of my An Inconvenient Truth DVD!”

“Then you might be able to help me with this problem I’ve got.”

“What is it mate,” asked Chris.

Brendan hesitated. He didn’t want to announce it too loudly, because the boys would lay into him if he did. It was like that time Nick Stevens did a shit in the clubrooms toilet so for a laugh, Brendan had done a shit in Stevens’ locker. Every day for a month. It had been a hoot.

So instead he leant down and whispered his secret into his captain’s ear. Chris’ faces grew visibly concerned as he digested what Brendan was saying. A frown spread across the enormous expanse of his forehead, a wasteland where the border between face and giant balding desert was never clear.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this mate, but I reckon you should go and talk to my missus. She’s a had a few issues with … ummm, confusion … in that sort of department lately. She might be able to help,” he said finally.

Personal best

That morning, as Brendan was wondering why his chest looked so empty, yet so fertile, Chris and Rebecca were busy making the beast with two backs.

Having assumed the traditional position, Chris was becoming visibly excited as he approached the vinegar strokes.

“213, 214, 215, 216,” he panted.

As he reached 250, he let go a soft growl, and rolled off the prone Rebecca, immediately checking his large sports watch.

“Hey look, babes, 9 minutes 22, that’s a new PB!”

Rebecca forced a smile and let her lissome arm dangle over Chris’ sculpted chest.

It wasn’t that sex with Chris was bad, in fact, sometimes it was good. And she knew she had no right to feel like this. There were thousands of girls who would happily swap places with her, she knew that. Chris was successful, wealthy, reasonably smart. He treated her well, had taken her back after a well-publicised lesbian affair with an ageing football writer. He was a good guy.

But she couldn’t help but think something was missing. Was this how life would be now, for the rest of her days? The occasional well-meaning but fairly mechanical root? Chris certainly shagged like he did everything else.

She felt a great melancholy settle over her as she showered. She tried to shake it off, telling herself that today at work, she would be able to help a poor unfortunate live a better life through the wonder of speech therapy, but even that failed her.

“See you tonight babes,” Chris said, kissing her as she dressed, “I’m off to lick Mr Pratt’s gravestone clean.”

Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. She didn’t know how much longer she could go on living this charade.