No, you have to go to work.

This was no time to start playing with my phone. I glanced at the clock and saw that I had only thirty minutes to get to the office. Jesus Christ, why didn't my alarm go off? If I didn't run right now, I would kiss my job goodbye.

So no shower, no breakfast, just basic clothes on and out of the door.

Thirty minutes later, here I was. I made it. Well, made it, if you consider the fact that I smelt of sweat and was completely out of breath.

I was a 30-something guy, and perhaps my chosen career of writing hadn't made me the perfect athlete I would have liked to have been. I was a bit pudgy and not-so good looking to boost. But here I was, in the office of "Mirage", the fashion magazine I had worked for the last five years of my life.

So why a fashion magazine? Is writing for one the dream job for a straight, hot blooded male like myself? Not really. Not really at all. All I knew is that I wanted to be a journalist someday, and this is where I ultimately drifted to. The truth is... I hate fashion. Every single bit of it. It's the most vain thing in existence, and I hate to write about it. Okay then. Then why on God's green earth haven't I quit yet?

Well, two very good reasons.

Firstly, it's not a easy to get a stable writing job in this economy. So despite hating it, I wanted to keep it.

Secondly, there was no way this wasn't the sexiest job in the world for a pervert like me. There were the bombshell models that I sometimes saw in the photography sessions, wearing the most see-through lingerie in existence. But even that was nothing compared to the actual staff of Mirage. For reasons I found hard to understand, I was the only male employee in the building. And all the other employees were women, sexy as fuck women. Your boss, assistants, receptionists, writers, editors... This was pure shangri-la. And for some reason I had the golden ticket to see these Goddesses every day and dream about them at night. So yeah, I wanted to hold on to this job for dear life.

Speaking of which, all my three writing colleagues were already in the office, staring at my stinking, sweating, out-of-breath body with what could only be described as disgust.

Firstly, there was Ulla Sorenson. 31-year-old Swedish-born sexbomb, and probably a militant feminist.

Then there was Lana Douglas. 25-year old energetic go-getter. She was always trying to compete with me, and lately it wasn't even a contest.

Smugly smirking at my tardiness. As was becoming the norm.

And then there was Sophie Sanders. No-bullshit type, frigid writing machine. Yet there's no hiding that masterpiece of a body.

"It's okay Jack. You probably don't have to be here on time anymore", Sophie murmured sarcastically, without even looking up from her screen.

"Let... me... just... catch... my....", I tried talking.

"Shut up Jack. I'm trying to concentrate!", Ulla shouted at me with her lovely swedish accent. She was definitely writing something with wild abandon.

Lana appeared to just be snickering to herself, as I made my way to the desk painfully. This was going to be an awful day. Especially when I saw Lana coming to me with a stack of papers.

"Oh hey Jack. I decided to have a wild night yesterday and wrote these five articles. Tell me what you think."

"You wrote five articles?"

"Oh yeah. I love my job. And I understand you're the senior here, so just tell me what you think. In the meanwhile I can check your latest article. So, where is it?"

"...Gretchen is checking it right now"

"Oh okay. Well let's hope it's good. She seemed pretty pissed off last night". Lana leaned next to me and whispered. "Seems like some people aren't really doing their job lately". She smiled and got off my desk. The absolute bitch. If I had any self confidence, I would have surely... well, asked politely for her to be... nicer?

Once again I started dreaming of a scenario where she is on her knees apologizing to me, before Gretchen bursted into the office.