On-the-job sex tales
Three Chicagoans share how they got it on while on the clock.
I was a resident at a local hospital and he was a surgeon there. When our eyes locked over a patient’s injured hand, I couldn’t help but imagine what was underneath his shapeless white coat. We quickly exchanged numbers at the end of the consult, and started to text dirty messages during work hours. “I’m hard in my scrubs” and things like that. Finally, I made a move, skipping a morning meeting in favor of texting him for a hookup. “Meet me at 8, we’ll find someplace,” I wrote. We snuck into a little-used bathroom upstairs. He went right for me, yanking down my pants, grabbing me under the ass, pulling me up on the bathroom counter and giving me head. Then we flipped, with me on my knees on the pea-green tiles. I pulled down his scrubs and returned the favor. And right at that moment of pure pleasure, at 8:30am in the bright hospital bathroom, someone opened the door. It was enough to make [the intruder] swear a quick “What the fuck!” and stumble out, but not enough to stop us. We zipped up, relocated to an empty call room, and completed our business…uninterrupted.—Mark, 28
Forget Don Draper
Working as an account executive at a Chicago-area advertising firm, I had a secret crush on my supervisor, but I knew hooking up with the boss could get tricky fast. One Friday night, however, we were both working late and no one else was around when I walked into his office with an armful of paperwork to discuss. In no time, he closed the door and slapped the blinds shut, his mouth on mine as we moved toward his desk. We didn’t even bother to take off our clothes. After that, I hoped I had gotten the behavior out of my system. It was partly true—the next time we had enough patience to take our clothes all the way off. We ended up getting married.—Anne, 33
I was behind the bar one Halloween weekend two years ago, working in costume as Walker, Texas Ranger. This girl who I had a huge crush on walked in dressed as a dominatrix, with a whip and ball gag tied to her hip. We flirted all night. Once I got cut, I made my way around to the front of the bar and started playing catch-up, downing Tuaca shots and IPAs. When my liquid courage kicked in, I grabbed her and we made our way past the kitchen and down the stairs into the basement. It was so disgusting down there, with a cement floor, four-foot ceilings and rats and roaches, but luckily I had on my big Walker, Texas Ranger duster, so I put that on the floor for us to lie on. We pretty much went straight for it so we could get out of there. She was wearing almost nothing, so I slid her skirt over her hips and slipped it in. It was so dark down there—it could have been her ass or her vag, I wouldn’t have known, but I got it in the right hole. She used her cat o’ nine tails whip on my ass and back, since I was on top. When we were done, we straightened ourselves out and went back upstairs, fairly certain that no one had seen us sneak off. But when we got to the top of the stairs, everyone—the busboys, kitchen staff and two managers—gave us a standing ovation. That’s when my manager came over and told me if I ever did that again, I’d be fired.—Ben, 27