I’m writing this on the way home from work, having only just left at eight o’clock. The commute to and from work is about an hour and ten minutes, a good half hour longer than the commute at the job before this one. The best thing I can say about the commute is that I’ve gotten used to it: I’m commuting from downtown to the suburbs, so I’m against the flow of traffic and I always get a seat. I use the time to read, listen to music, and sometimes work. Occasionally I just stare into space and think.

I haven’t written about work much lately, mostly because I think I’ve finally come to something of an understanding about it. I’ve realized that after three years here, I’m as secure as I’ll ever be. I’ve grown confident enough in my abilities that I’ve stopped worrying and stopped listening to my over-active imagination. I always used to think of my worrying as a kind of workplace survival instinct: the fear and wondering “How can I save my job now?” when I made mistakes or missed deadlines. I’ve gotten better at trying not to worry needlessly, and I’ve gotten better when it comes to making mistakes and missing deadlines, something my manager told me that he recognized earlier this year. I still goof off and make mistakes, but I think I’ve got things under control. It’s as good as it’s gonna get.

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After six o’clock, all the exits other than the employee entrance are locked. That means walking the length of the building, which takes me right by the shipping and receiving area. There’s a fat little cubby piglet who works there (He looks like a shorter Mike Mauro). It’s unfortunate that we don’t get to interact more, but I can only come up with so many excuses to visit shipping and receiving.

Tonight I ran into him as he was leaving for the night, walking out of the shipping and receiving area. But instead of heading straight to the exit, he turned left to go to the washroom right next to it.

I followed him as he went into the washroom and he lumbered up to the urinals. There are only two urinals in that washroom, and he chose the one on the right. That’s the perfect choice: since most people are right handed, any guy who holds his cock with his right hand gives sluts on the left a better chance at getting a good look.

I took the pisser next to him and watched as he finished doing the belt-button-pants thing, one hand resting on his thigh and his other hand on his cock. His pubes were spilling out and he held a cute little uncut cock in his hand, the foreskin still covering the whole thing. I almost rotated my eyes out the side of my head watching him hold his cock at right the tip of its head while he pissed out his pointy foreskin.

Even though he doesn’t have a wedding ring, he’s totally straigt. He didn’t give off even the slightest hint of exhibitionism and he didn’t show any interest in what I was doing. That’s all right, though, since I still got to see his. I wonder if he has a girl who appreciates how hot he is.

I finished when he finished, and went to wash my hands just as he tucked his cock into his underwear. As we silently washed our hands together, he noticed me glancing at him in the mirror. “Hey,” he greeted me. “Hey,” I replied.

We left the washroom and walked out the employee exit. “Good night,” I finished with. As he turned to the lot where his truck was parked, he replied “Night. See ya.” At least I got a little reward for working late.