Page 2 of Filthy Boss

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating just a little bit. Maybe not all men on planet earth are douchebags. Maybe it’s just the males of the species that I have personally met over my twenty-four years on the planet were douchebags.

They didn’t all start out that way, of course. Some of them were perfectly nice in the beginning. They seemed to evolve into douchebags after they met me. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was the common denominator. Maybe I took perfectly nice guys and turned them into total douchebags. I was patient zero!


I licked the dressing from my lips and reached for the tea. Maybe that was my special power, I thought. I had the power to turn perfectly nice guys into douchebags.

Nah. Who am I kidding.

I don’t have special powers.

Men are quite capable of becoming douchebags all on their own.

They certainly didn’t need any influence from me.

The most recent douchebag in my life was my ex-boyfriend, Scott, who dumped me after dating for five years because his mother didn’t think I was good enough for him.

He actually said those words to me.

“I’m sorry, Candice, but Mother doesn’t think you’re good enough for me.”

“I’m not marrying your mother, Scott,” I shot back. “The question is, what do you think?”

The prick didn’t hesitate. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I think Mother is probably right.”

And with that, he turned and walked out the door and never looked back.

I was like, are you kidding me, mother f*cker?

I’ve dated your douchebag ass since freshman year at college, saved my virginity for our wedding night, and two months before the wedding, I’m not good enough for you?

Seriously?

F*ck you!

And f*ck your mother!!!

I felt my cheeks getting hot. Even though it’s been over a year since Scott dumped me, it still makes me fume.

Granted, I didn’t come from money like Scott’s family did. The Carlson family was lower middle class at best, but I worked my ass off to get through college and then graduate school. I graduated with an MBA from Harvard last year and was recruited by Goldman & Stern to join their management consulting group before the ink on my diploma was dry.

I have a windowed-office in a Chicago high-rise, and pulldown one-fifty a year plus bonuses. I have a killer apartment downtown, and am on the fast track to make partner within five years. And I’m not good enough for your piece of shit son?

Again, dear mother, f*ck you!

I frowned at my own thought. I never used to cuss like this. Granted, this conversation is only going on in my head, but now I have the vocabulary of a drunken sailor.

And I blame it on Scott and his mommy.

Scott said his mommy thought I was a bad person. She didn’t like the way I treated her little boy.

Fine. Whatever. Sure, I can be a little abrasive at times, and maybe I bossed Scott around a bit, but come on, the guy could barely wipe his own ass without mommy’s help.

If he didn’t have me telling him what to do he would have spent most of his days bouncing through life like a pinball.

Not good enough for your son.

F*ck you, you old bat.

Your son wasn’t good enough for me!

I chewed on a chunk of lettuce and scolded myself for even thinking about this stuff. I mean, it had been over a year since I last saw Scott. Why was this still sticking in my craw?

And why didn’t I want anything to do with men in general now?

Had Scott scarred me for life?

Was I destined to be an old maid?

Or maybe a lesbian?

Hmm, no, I didn’t swing that way.

At least not yet…

I was young, healthy, and horny as the next girl. The fact that I was still a virgin irked me a bit. After all, the whole “saving myself for Mr. Right” crap flew out the window the day Scott dumped me. I’d jump Mr. Wrong’s bones if given the chance.

It’s not that I haven’t had opportunities to have sex. Jesus, you can’t walk down the hallway here at Goldman & Stern without running into a swinging dick. It’s just that I don’t want to be bothered by a man at this point in my life.

And as I said, men are douchebags.

I’d never had a cock inside of me, so maybe I didn’t know what I was missing. But I had long, nimble fingers and the foot-long vibrating dildo I bought online that I called “George Clooney”. George was always waiting for me in my nightstand. What the heck did I need a man for?

No, better for me to focus on my career rather than my love life. I was only twenty-four. I still had plenty of time left on the old biological clock, although some days I could hear it ticking louder than others.

I had my entire future all mapped out. I would find a man after I made partner, probably when I was thirty or so, squeeze out a couple of cute babies by the time I was thirty-five, and find a nice French nanny to raise them for me while I went back to work.

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