First it was her love of quality artificial fruit. Then it was a disturbing glimpse into her repressed sexuality. This time she means business. No more talky-talk from a safe distance outside my personal space, she’s moved on to pressing her late-middle-aged lady boobs into me under the pretext of asking me to find some website on the internet.

“Could you do me a favor and see if you can find a website on… HORMONAL therapy?”

She’s got her right hand on my upper back and is leaning over my left shoulder to look at my monitor. She lingered on the word hormonal. It was spoken a little louder than the other words.

“Is your computer not working?”

Her right boob just grazed my shoulder. I shiver. Not with pleasure.

She’s using this weird sing-songy voice. “I put it in the Google search box but it’s not working properly. All the links it returns are for different things.”

“uh huh.”

Her boob graze has escalated to a boob press. I think I can feel the contours of her thick cotton bra. I type in the search phrase “hormonal therapy”, hoping to get this over with quickly.

“Oh, yeees, it seems to be working for you. Those websites are better. What search term did you use?”

“You know, what you told me. Maybe you spelled it wrong?”

The boob press has turned into a full-on boob mash. It’s squishing around my shoulder, undulating to the front and back. If I ever had a hankering to know, I can now confirm for myself they’re real.

Her eyes are half-closed. “Hmm, maybe I spelled it wrong. Well, let’s see, what do you got there? That first link looks good. HOOORMOONAAAAL therapy for BREEEEEEAST cancer. Open that one up, I want to see what it says.”

Perfect. That just HAD to be the first link. “I’ll send the link to your email.” I’m squirming away from her, leaning off the side of my chair.

“Hold on, does that one have diagrams?”

Still mashing.

“I don’t think so… hey, I’ll just email you the link and you can read it on your computer…”

“Wait, what’s that link farther down the page… HOOOOORMOOONAL therapy for… the transGENDERED.”

Did her nipple just get hard?

She looks at me. “That’s those people that get their… genitalia changed, right? Could you imagine getting that done? Oh no, that’s not right. What a mess!” She laughs, and her boob gyrates rhythmically in response.

I’m leaning so far off my chair that I can barely see the keyboard. I begin rolling backwards. “Ok, so this is not what you want. Well, I think you know what to put into the search field. Lots of stuff here. Knock yourself out!”

“I’ve heard there are things you can eat that will regulate your HORMONES. You know, you get older and sometimes those hormones go crazy and you can’t think straight.”

“Blueberries.”

“What?”

“Blueberries. They’re great for your overall health. Go buy them. Sweet jesus, go buy them now. In fact, I’m going to get some. Excuse me.” I make a move to stand up, but she has already veered back and is walking… no, sashaying… away from me.

“Thank you for your heeeeelp!” She practically sings these words. I think of The Sound of Music where the family is running through a meadow. A meadow of mushy breasts and blueberries.

My horny unattractive older coworker reminds me of a landlady I had years ago when I lived in a group house. She would traipse up to her bedroom every night with her two sheepdogs and a jar of peanut butter.

Broads go nuts when they’re deprived the cock.