Sebastian never particularly wanted to be a Marketing Research Manager. As a child he didn’t go around saying, “When I grow up I want to analyze miles of spreadsheet to identify key differentiating product specifications”. But here he was, trying to unravel how Production, based on his customer preference research, designed a compact for rouge and eye shadow to anatomically resemble the vagina. He had a theory: Pre-op transvestites. Their pimp had sent them in, in hordes to the focus groups. It was the easiest twenty bucks a working girl could make between nine and eleven-thirty on a weekday morning. And now, fifty thousand hot pink bulbous monstrosities were sitting in a warehouse in Beijing waiting for someone to dip the 8.7-inch powder brush between the silicon folds, emerge glistening pink. Just thinking about explaining the sampling bias to his boss was making his palms sweat. He’d be fired. For sure he’d be fired.
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Neil watched the training video on how to use the new colour copier for the third time that morning and he was intrigued. Intrigued and hard. The blond nymphet in the tight suit demo-ing the product was hot. She said, “The Cannon Laser 4000 will take care of all your business needs”. Yes Ma’am! He licked his lips and imagined bending her over the humming box of metal (that could print on both sides, collate, and staple) and pushing inside her from behind. Little did he know that a deep-seeded Pavlovian response was taking hold and that it would be several months before he’d be able to set foot into the copy room without needing to shield his midsection with the Policy and Procedures binder, a jumbo bag of Cheetos, or, in a pinch, the Bijon Frisé his secretary brought into the office. Eventually, the condition subsided but damaging rumours of puppy love did not.
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